Where Hemlock Blooms
by GoWithTheFlo20
Summary: If she had a world of her own, everything would be nonsense. Everything would be what it isn't. Contrary wise, what it is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would, you see? Hemlock Potter is falling down the rabbit hole. After all, no exceptional soul is exempt from a mixture of madness. Will/Fem!Harry/Hannibal. Dark Fic. Strong M.
1. Chapter 1

**Synopsis:** If she had a world of her own, everything would be nonsense. Everything would be what it isn't. Contrary wise, what it is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would, you see? Hemlock Potter is falling down the rabbit hole. After all, no exceptional soul is exempt from a mixture of madness. Will/Fem!Harry/Hannibal.

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 **WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: Cannibalism (This is a Hannibal fic, after all XD), Gore, Murder, Large Age difference in a romantic setting, M/F/M, Manipulation (On every single side of the table), Warped morality, Delusions, exploration of themes of decadence, madness and existential crisis's, serial killers, forensic pathology, heavy philosophical debates and exploration, surrealism in some parts, streams of consciousness and a heavy-handed use of dramatic irony. And blood. Lot's an' Lot's of blood… Some guts too. Definitely organs. If none of this is your cup of tea, run. Run now lol.**

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 **PROLOGUE: DELIGHTFUL**

 **Harry's P.O.V**

Just a few months. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One hand. Just five months. Hemlock Potter could do that. She _could_. She _would._ She _had_ to. In five months time, she would turn seventeen, the age of majority in the wizarding world. At seventeen, as a witch herself, she could legally buy a little house off a coastline somewhere far away, one with a little herb garden and hanging baskets, gain lawful employment and take splendour in all that was adulthood, sans war, killing and horcruxes. She could almost laugh. From eleven years of age, the ministry had been perfectly fine in allowing a child to win their war, to sacrifice themselves like a timid little lamb, all downy fur and crooked hooves, but afterwards? After the war? After they had used her up, chewed her marrow and sucked her fat and spat the husk of herself back out? Oh no, she had to obey the law. She needed a guardian. It was only right. Fuck 'em. Fuck the lot of them. Toys were only enjoyed when they were shiny and new, all brass tacks and jolly green, not dented and splattered with blood from the time they used said toy to bash another's skull in.

" _You'll like her Harry, she's a lot like your mother."_

She felt like a walking, talking clock. Ticking away. Tick, tock, or tock, tick. Maybe it was neither. Perhaps both. All and nothing. Only, she felt more fluid, dripping, leaking, more reminiscent of that Salvador Dali painting. Her face wasn't right. Her numbers were sliding, skewed, twos where sixes used to be and her big and small hands only trembled as they fruitlessly tried to continue their cycle. A broken, melted, useless clock ticking or tocking to a beat not meant to exist. That is what she was now. Each second that passed her by, her dribbling, skewered arm was waving it away, shedding the time, turning her back on temporal existence. Time did not matter. It was stable, linear, it would pass and Harry, as she liked to be called, would finally be _free._ Time was a human construct. There was no past or future, just now, just the present. A flash and flare of momentary existence. A fluidized ebb of consciousness that was forever morphing. Nothing lasted. Neither would her confinement in America.

" _It'll be just for a few months, once you turn seventeen, legally, you can do as you wish."_

Her only gratitude was to the fact that she would not be relinquished back into the care of her darling and dearest aunt and uncle. No. That time, the cupboard, the beatings, the hunger, that was passed. Temporary. Everything was interim, nothing permanent, and this new place would be the same. Tom had taught her that. Nothing, no one, not even a god itself, could last forever. Tick tock, tick tock. Just like a heartbeat.

" _Don't you want to get to know your family?"_

What was family? Harry didn't know. The concept was alien. Foreign. An infection. People like her, like Riddle, they didn't get to have sentimentality. Emotions and connections and compassion were for the safe. Harry had never been safe. The war was over, but that hadn't changed. Safety was just another illusion, another construct, a little fable you would tell yourself so you could sleep at night. Harry didn't need anesthetic ideology. She needed that pebbled beach and solitude. Others, well, they were the ones who said she needed family. Her parents were dead. Petunia and Vernon wished for nothing to do with the _freak_ and now, apparently, she had another aunt, hidden away all this time, across the great pond the pilgrims had sailed, just waiting in the side-lines, wanting to meet her. Harry didn't trust it. She couldn't. Not after everything she had been through. Why now? How? When? Who?

" _She's a doctor, a psychiatrist muggles call them, I believe. A doctor of the mind… How fascinating! Isn't it fascinating Harry?"_

No, it wasn't fascinating… It was terrifying. Perhaps she would be a good person, this mind doctor, who had run from home as soon as she had turned of age. She who had cut all ties to their family by changing her name and emigrating. She who came back, nearly eighteen years later, wanting to know her niece. Perhaps. Perhaps. However, Harry knew it was never too long before the milk soured. Before the meat soiled or the flowers wilted. There would be something wrong, with her, with the place, with the situation. There always was. This would be no different. Distrust was the only way to hold back betrayal and Harry... She had lived through her fair share of betrayal before. She wouldn't fall to blind trust again, not since Tom's diary, and she wouldn't start again.

" _There's a letter here for you, Harry. It says it's from Baltimore, America?"_

Her letter had been… Perfunctorily polite and airy. Riddled with a dust of overzealous amicability and unfunded fondness. This strange aunt spoke of Lily, her mother, of recently hearing of her death, too late, always too late. She spoke of things she had no idea about and it only made Harry loath her more. What right did she have? Perhaps all the right and maybe none. She was a stranger and strangers brought unpredictability. When the ministry of magic had been looking for a guardian for Harry to live with until she turned seventeen, this doctor had been found, suspiciously easily in Harry's eyes, and upon hearing the sad, sordid tale of Harry's life, had jumped at the bit to meet the poor, orphan girl who had a serial killer hunting her for most of her life. As for how cover stories went, hers was eerily too close to the truth for Harry's comfort.

" _You're looking tired Harry. Perhaps you can catch an hour or two on the plane over to America."_

The ministry warned Harry that this doctor would question her. Of course she would, her sister was dead, her husband too and the strange aunt had only just heard about it. She had only just discovered a niece who she should have been informed about as soon as Lily passed, in case she wanted to petition Petunia for her guardianship. But, oh no. That would have gone against the great Dumbledore's plan, wouldn't it? Perhaps, with this doctor, Harry would have had a happy life, and then, when the time came, just maybe Harry wouldn't have been so willing to give it all up for the sake of the 'greater good'. Dumbledore couldn't have that. The ministry couldn't have that. So, this doctor had been kept in the dark, Harry had never heard of her and she had been shipped off to Petunia and Vernon, to the mold and damp and bruises.

" _You never know Harry, you could be happy with this aunt."_

Harry had never been given that option and what was done was done. She couldn't change that. Maybe she didn't want to. Who knew anymore. The fact of the matter was Harry was left here, flying to America with only half truths on her lips. It was easiest to stay as close to the truth as possible, so Shacklebolt told her, so Harry slipping and accidently outing the wizarding world was a slim chance indeed.

" _Just stick as close to the truth as possible Harry. Change few facts… Hide the lies in truth and no one sees the rot."_

Lily and James Potter, former MI5 agents who had been tracking an underground terrorist cell, were killed on October 31st, when a deranged serial killer and leader of the terrorist sect, obsessed with the ideology of immortality, broke into their home. James was murdered out in the hallway. Lily was killed standing over her child's crib, trying to protect the infant. The leader, who went by the moniker of Voldemort, went to kill the child, after having a delusion of a baby killing him, and in the struggle with her mother, a struggle that ended with Harry's burning scar, he was grievously injured, believed dead for many years.

" _Repeat it back to me Harry. It's important you remember your story."_

In a resounding fuck-up by child services, Harry was given to Petunia and Vernon without following proper protocol, who were not the best of parents to the child. They kept their abuse hidden, and none was the wiser. By age eleven, Harry had been granted into a gifted school, one her parents attended, and soon, the cards came tumbling down. Tom reappeared in her first year, having broken into her school, masqueraded as a teacher, and tried to bludgeon her to death with a stone. Second year he attacked again, abducting her friend, Ginny Weasley, and trying to poison Harry with snake venom. In third year, Harry's actual guardian who had been appointed by her parents, another member of the MI5 task team set to capture and quell this terrorist guerrilla movement, broke out of a mental asylum and came for her, only for it to come to light that he wasn't the one to sell her parents out to Tom and for it to be another friend and colleague, Peter Pettigrew. After Pettigrew escaped, with no proof of his innocence, Sirius was forced to go on the run, still trying to protect his goddaughter.

" _No, Harry. Try again. You must get the story straight or your aunt, a well-respected psychiatrist, will tear it apart. Now, begin again."_

In Harry's fourth year, Tom lashed out once more. With his own people in place, he infiltrated her schools' games, murdered her friend, Cedric Diggory, and tried to finish her off before Harry managed to escape. In her fifth year, having picked up on Tom's pattern of attack, Harry was superficially inducted into the same organisation her mother and father worked for, in an act to protect her. This obviously failed… Spectacularly. They were cornered in a building and Sirius… Sirius die-… Sirius…

" _Can't I just stay here?"_

" _No. Dr Bloom has… Stubbornly requested a meeting with you and we have no ground to deny it. If we keep trying to push it back, she'll ask more questions and we don't need more people digging into anything else."_

One of the heads of the MI5 department her parents worked for was murdered by Severus Snape, another member they believed to be on their side but was actually a turncoat. With Albus's death, it all fell down to ashes. Civilians were killed, government institutions were infiltrated and finally, it all came to a head right back where it all started. In a last ditch attempt, Tom attacked Harry's boarding school once more. Many people died, agents and civilians alike, but not before Severus Snape, who had been playing triple spy to hand them information on Tom's lot, passed Voldemort's location to Harry before he too kicked the bucket.

" _We've doctored and created all the files necessary, with help from our contacts in the muggle services and government. All you must do Harry, is stick to your story. Just for the few months you'll be over there."_

Harry, not wanting anyone else to get hurt, snuck off to face her dear ol' foe. She was fatally wounded in the little scuffle, but managed to stab Tom in the heart, ending the madness once his followers disbanded having seen their god-like leader killed by nothing but a _child_. Harry was then taken to an intensive care unit for her injuries where, just a few weeks ago, she received a seemingly innocuous letter from Baltimore.

" _Perhaps it will do you good to get away from the wizarding world for a while. Away from all the… I heard Baltimore has amazing museums! Maybe you can visit them? And their parks are meant to be just beautiful!"_

Oh, Harry had her story straight alright. Like an arrow, feathered and knocked and ready to fly. She was ready to lie and scheme and put on a happy little smile and coy eyes if only it meant a few hours of peace and quiet. Harry's eyes squeezed shut before she rapidly blinked, trying to even the momentary hitch of her breath. If she felt a hand on her shoulder, all spiderweb spindly and artic cold, if she saw black curls and a crimson gaze from the corner of her eye, then she would blink and she would lie. Tom was dead. Tom was gone. Tom wasn't coming back.

" _Another nightmare? Do you want to talk about it or-"_

" _No. Just… No. I'm fine Hermione."_

But Tom was a _part_ of her. Her life. Her journey. Her soul. She is-… Was… Had been his horcrux. She had housed a shard of his inky, foul soul and she had seen him clearer, better, more deeply than anyone or anything ever could. That was a stain you couldn't scrub out. That was a smell you couldn't mask with perfume or impish smiles. That was a truth you couldn't split in half. When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks back and Tom knew her just as much as she knew him. _Tainted. Corrupted. Spoiled. Soured._

"The 311 flight to Baltimore-Washington international is now preparing to land. Please engage your seatbelts. Thank you for flying with American airlines today and we all wish for you to have a pleasant and joyful journey and stay."

It took for the old lady next to Harry, a withered, greying being who smelt like mothballs and tar soap, to begin to click in her own seatbelt for Harry to realize the voice she heard wasn't a memory, nor just in her head. As her own seatbelt clacked into place, Harry let her eyes drift shut as she flopped back into her seat, her head lolling on the little headrest. Tom was _dead._ Final. Full stop. There was nothing to think, feel or say on that matter. Not for Harry. She needed to get her head in the game. She needed to think straight. She was going to be watched, questioned, observed. She couldn't slip up.

"First time flying dear?"

One eye cracked open to see the old lady staring at her, iris's milky and hazy and looking towards her hands. Harry glimpsed down and saw what the old lady did. Her knuckles had bled white and her fingers were currently imbedding themselves into the cushioned armrests, nearly tearing into the tacky fabric. Immediately her hands released their grip and Harry gave an idle chuckle.

"You could say that."

The old lady in Paisley's curiosity was somewhat slated by the way she turned back to her window, watching the clouds begin to swallow their little airplane as they descended back to earth. Half truths and shaded lies. It was true, Harry had never flown in a metal contraption, belted to a seat, surrounded by strangers before. She must admit, this form of flight left her feeling claustrophobic, hindered, more trapped than her well-loved broom.

Soon, however, it was all over. She was wrestling her duffle bag free, her only piece of luggage, scampering through docking terminals and wiggling through ticket turnstiles. By the time she reached the open, wide gatehouse, bubbling full of rushing people, a blur of talk, colour and smiling faces, it wasn't hard to pinpoint her aunt. The starkly white cardstock sign she was holding, simply reading Hemlock Potter, didn't give to any confusion either.

For a brief moment, Harry thought about walking away. She could see it. Blending into the crowd. Melting away fully. Becoming mist and fog that would slink away and seep back into the land, disappearing over craggy mountains. No one could reach her if she was fog. No one could hold mist and smoke. Not even the memory of Tom. She could cut everything free now. She could run. Escape. No one would know. She simply went missing on the airplane. Just another shadow lost.

But that wasn't true, was it? That was another half lie. A fantasy. She couldn't run. She couldn't hide. Not from her mind. Not from the memories. So, she did what she did best. She painted on an impeccable smile, she loosened her limbs and she moved forward with a spring to her step. Nothing but a mockery of a happy, easy-going teenager. No one could ever spot her forgeries. She was too good in creating masks and faces now. Another thing darling Tom had taught her. Perhaps, one day, far from now, she would start believing them too, a creator lost to its own creation. Harry found that poetic, in a way.

Her aunt was everything Petunia tried to be but wasn't. Beautiful, elegant, understated but flawless. Somehow, her aunt managed to blend aristocratic grace with a sort of comely homeliness. Next to her, Harry looked like a vagabond. Scuffed timberlands, torn jeans, a plain white T and a leather jacket two sizes too big because it used to belong to Sirius, just didn't match up right with the kitten heals, tight pencil skirt or flowery, silken blouse and rich green peacoat and scarf. Even her dark curls, a dark brown, were a shining waterfall compared to Harry's explosion of onyx frizz and rebellion.

"Hemlock, is that you? By god, your eyes…"

Either she was going to point out how unsettling the jade green shade was, as many who had not met her mother did frequently, or she would bring up their inexplicable resemblance to said mother, two forms of conversation Harry had plenty of experience in and wished not to venture into once more. So, a swift change of topic was in order.

"I'm assuming you are Mrs… Is it Mrs? Or Miss? Or Doctor? What do I call you?"

It was brushing on the rude side, but it flustered the doctor just enough to slide her away from her eye colour and Harry only looked to be a slightly jet-legged confused teen bumbling through an awkward meeting of a distant relative. Friendly, but endearingly blunt. A good face to wear. An affable blush ghosted along the swell of the doctor's cheeks at being subtly prodded at for not introducing herself. Harry felt almost bad for already elusively playing and warping words into reactions and conclusions she liked.

 _Almost._

"Of course, where have my manners gone! You can call me Alana, or Miss Bloom if that makes you feel more comfortable. I only use my doctor title with patients, not family. It's so good to finally meet you."

The outright lie of parroting back that it was good to meet Alana Bloom too died on her tongue. Harry, in honesty, wanted to be anywhere but here. She wanted her little cottage near a pebbled beach with a herb garden and hanging baskets. She wanted silence and peace. She wanted to _rest._ She didn't want to be playing muggle in a foreign land for five months. Relative or not. Still, the tangible temptation of that evasive concept of family was one even Harry couldn't fully deny. What would having a family mean? What would it be like having an aunt to care about, and to care about her? What would it feel like to have someone there?

"Just Harry… I go by Harry. Hemlock is such a pretentious name, is it not? And supposedly my mother always wanted a little boy called Harry."

Alana's smile faltered, just a crack, a splinter in the corner, before she nodded, and her grin grew stable and strong once more. Ah. She didn't like being reminded that she had missed her sister's death by a whole sixteen years. Harry needed to watch her words more carefully. She had grown up with her parent's death, Alana had not had that comfort. Wounds were still fresh for her, despite the knife having been dug in years ago. Fascinating, in a way, really. Silly too. Ghost's couldn't hurt you. Memories _did._ Alana would learn that. Everyone did. Harry was just ahead of the curve.

"Harry it is. Now, how about we get ourselves home and have a nice, hot meal? Sound good?"

The smile Harry gave was nothing but knotted root, broken stem, poisoned petal and damaged bulb, but all Alana saw was a rose garden. Maybe Hemlock did take after her name, poison most toxic, hidden innocuously in a little plant. If so, it was only because Dumbledore, Tom and Bellatrix made her this way, or perhaps cracked her human clay front, like a Jewish Golem, to let the poison weep out. What did it matter? All was temporal. All was glancing. Everything ended. Perhaps, for once being lucky, staying under the radar and sticking to her story wouldn't be too difficult of a task after all.

"That sounds delightful."

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 **So… Do you like it? I hope you do! I am a bit hesitant about posting this fic, but well, if you're reading this, I've gone and posted it XD. This isn't going to be a light fic. It gets dark quite fast, though it seems pretty neutral and airy here, it is a strong M later (If I could I'd rate it R but this site won't let you, so, heads up.). So, if you're faint of heart, I'd leave. If not, welcome to the ride!**

 **As for why I've gave Harry the female name of Hemlock rather than its gendered form of Harriet is, in this fic, I believe it fits better. Hemlock is the famous poison used to kill Socrates, the greek philosopher who formed such ideas as 'a statement is considered true if it cannot be proved wrong', and more importantly in this fic, Socrates put much emphasis on Virtue importance and morality, subjects Harry is going to delve deep into in this fic. Hemlock likes to grow in broken, disturbed and slightly shadowed places. Such as by fences, at the side of roads and by ponds. Hemlock is also, especially in Europe, tied to witchcraft. It hides very easily, being mistaken for other plants, and many people cross it without ever really knowing they have, a good metaphor for witches and wizards, especially ones from the Potter verse, while also being a good metaphor for Hannibal, Will and Harry herself. I just wanted to quickly clear that up and I hope it doesn't bother too many people.**

 **Thank you all for taking the time to read this, and if you have a moment and wish to see more, drop a review letting me know! I love hearing from you guys.**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER ONE: BUTTERBEER**

 **Harry's P.O.V**

Harry was bleeding out again. She could feel it, a trickle, a pull, a gush. Laying in bed, in the maw of night-time, there wasn't any blood on the linen sheets. That would have been better. More kind. A slow but tranquil spill into nothingness, a visual representation of her emotional, mental and spiritual wounds. White cotton leaching to ruby red. No one saw blood and thought _normal._ Healed. Intact. No. What Harry was discharging, exuding from her very pores to wisp up into the frigid Baltimore air in vapor was something much worse. She was bleeding _herself_ out.

Her memories, her thoughts, her feelings, everything that made Harry, well, Harry, was draining from her, percolating, puffing away like the fog she so wanted to be. Soon, she would be empty. Uninhabited. Barren. And that's when the earnest, wretched darkness would come. Humans weren't born to be empty, they were made to be full of soul and dream and thought. Human's were multi-coloured. All blues and golds and pinks and greens and everything in between. A spectrum of beauty and life. All Harry could see in lately was shades of red. All she felt was blackness. All she heard was a range of dull greys. Vacant. Nothing empty could ever truly exist and once Harry was done leaking herself away, her own demons would wear her like a well-pressed skin suit.

The bed didn't creak as she sat up and swung her legs over the edge. The floorboards didn't screech as she padded over to the wardrobe. The bulb in the lamp didn't buzz or hum as she flicked the switch. She wished they did. She wished they howled and screamed and yelled so loudly, so profoundly that no one, not a sleeping Alana in a bedroom down the hall from her, to Ron or Hermione back in England, could not hear or could ignore. Blind. Everybody was blind.

The large mirror in the wardrobe door lit up. Everything was there. Those were Harry's toes. Those were Harry's kneecaps. Those were Harry's scars and uncontrollable hair. Yet it took too long, far too long, for Harry to recognize her own reflection. Too close. She had come to close to emptying out. Nearly gone. Nearly barren. Nearly a husk. Desolate bodies for abandoned souls. She took a deep breath, locked eyes with her warped, hallowed out mirror counterpart, and she began a mantra she knew off by heart.

"You have more mercy than Dumbledore. You have more compassion than Tom. You have more sanity than Bellatrix."

She had to remember. She had to believe. She wasn't them. She never would be. She couldn't be. She would never leave a child to be abused. She wouldn't let that child grow up, loveless, alone, knowing, hoping one day it would kill itself just so others could live. She would show more mercy than Dumbledore. She wouldn't kill anyone else. She would never rejoice in a slaughter. She wouldn't see death and murder as a game to play. People weren't sheep and she was not a wolf. Her heart would beat more strongly than Tom's ever did. Neither would she cackle, howl, laugh when she saw suffering. She wouldn't mutter and scamper and hide in the shadows, lost to her own delusions. Her mind would be sturdier than Bellatrix's.

However… She _wanted_ to. She wanted to shove someone into her role, her life, just to see if they would have made the same choices she did, fell down the same hills she fell down, to kill who she killed and to die when she died. Was it nature or nurture that birthed something as she? She wanted to laugh at ghosts, she wanted to take other's loved ones from them, just so she could bare witness to some suffering that mirrored her own. She wanted to see death as the best game around, only to make more sense of what and who she was now. If it was a game, the stakes didn't seem so high, sanity didn't seem so important. Losing herself, shedding the old her, shirking the sheep wool to let her wolf fur bristle only seemed more natural if this, life, death, madness, was just a game.

She was a monster. A Frankenstein not quite finished. They had all chipped at her, everyone she had ever known, scoured her, dug out pieces of her and replaced them with their own jarring bits, crammed together, crudely stitched until here she was, a work of art, an amalgamation of all the wonderful and grotesque things in life. No. She wasn't. She was Harry. Plain old, simple, content Harry. Nothing more. Nothing less. She couldn't afford to be anything else. She saw herself in the mirror, tilting her chin up, nostrils flaring in agitation, but she _felt_ nothing. Rage. Despair. Sorrow. Exultation. Harry wanted to feel it all, and yet, she felt absolutely nothing. Anything and everything was better than this forsaken numbness.

"You are not as vindictive as Dolohov. You are less savage than Greyback. You are not as sly as Rabastan and Rodolphus."

No, she really wasn't any of those things. If she was vindictive, she would have waited until McGonagall used her animagus form, grabbed her by the scruff of her furry frail little neck, tied her into a sack with her precious little books and scrolls and dumped her into a lake. Watched it sink. Just for the way that prim and rigid teacher had done to her on the Dursley's doorstep, knowing full well what kind of life was waiting for her on the other side of the door, all because her beloved Dumbledore told her to do it. She would watch as McGonagall slowly drowned, fighting for breath, begging for it, and Harry would turn her back like everyone else had done to her.

If she was savage, she would have hunted Greyback down. She would find him, after all, Harry was the best at finding hidden things, secret things, and she wouldn't rest until she did. She would pin him down but keep him awake… Aware. Slowly, working her way up from the feet, she would drop stones on him. Heavy ones, jagged ones, flat brick ones. She would hear his bones snap, his muscles tear, his breath labour and she would think, she would know, now he knew how Remus felt when he cast that Hogwarts wall to fall on him and Tonks. If she was feeling particularly barbaric, she would wait until he was on deaths door and then vanish the stones gone. Then the knife would come into play…

If she was sly, and she really, truly wanted to kill someone, anyone, she would be smart about it. Some deatheaters were still on the run, having dashed as soon as the tides of war changed. She would track them down first. Maybe even visit the Malfoys. No one would miss them. No one would look for them, and if they did, and if their corpses were discovered, who would cry over it? None. The wizarding world would rejoice! Karma had finally taken to action! They wouldn't investigate into their deaths, they would simply chalk it up to a victory. After that, well, the world wasn't lacking in killers, was it? What was the fun in hunting sheep when you could hunt wolves? Tom was a wolf… And look at what she did to him… Dust in the wind...

But no. She was none of those things. She wasn't. She wasn't. She wasn't!

"Don't be as petty as Umbridge. Don't be as duplicitous as Snape. Don't be as self-centred as Lucius…"

Fight it. Don't bleed out. This wasn't Harry. It couldn't be. She took a long drag of air in through her nose, and it trembled like a naked baby as she let it out. Everything was trembling, shaking, blurring, as if she was a sketch being erased. She focused on her face. For a moment, she thought her eyes flashed red.

" _Be_ Harry. You _are_ Harry. I _am_ Harry. Harry is _my_ name."

 _Bow to death, Harry._

No. He was dead. Dead. Dead.

 _There is no good and evil, there is only power and those too weak to seek it._

"Go away Tom. Go. Away."

 _Come out Harry, come out and play, then it will be quick, it might even be painless, I would not know, I have never died._

"You are dead Tom. I killed you. I watched it. Me. I. Killed. You. You're not real. None of this is real. Wake up. Wake up…"

 _Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this…_

Everything was unfocused. Clouded. An ink drawing left in a muddy puddle. But she could see. There. In the mirror. Her eyes… Cold and crimson and she was never really free. Tom is never really gone.

 _I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost... But still, I was alive._

"I said go away!"

Her fist went flying, there was a shatter and sting and soon, the mirror was falling to pieces, bits dancing, gliding to the floor in silver shards, leaving a broken, shattered mess on the wardrobe. A beautiful, deranged spiderweb of glittering jewels. Was she the spider or the fly? She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think. Her heart was faltering, spluttering, missing. But she saw. She saw it. A hand, all black smoke and Thestral bone reach out from a shard, bracing against the wardrobe door, joined by another, pulling, dragging. Like the lady of the lake, he came. _Her Tom_.

His ebony curls, his inky skin, everything about him foul and pitch black and so achingly familiar. Her face was his face. Twins, really. The female to his male. The heads to his tails. Apart from his eyes. Red and blood and death. Orbs of hellfire. He stayed there, half in and half out the broken mirror, perched like a crow, leaning towards her, beckoning her to Valhalla and he… He smiled at her.

 _I'm inside you, Harry._

* * *

 **Alana's P.O.V**

One minute her niece, Harry, was sound asleep besides her in the car, having dropped off quite soon into their journey, the next she was wide awake, alert, gazing down at her knuckles, rubbing a thumb across the bumps and hills of her joints as if she had expected to see them split and bleeding. She was a fast little thing, for sure. Harry didn't shout, jerk or flail. She simply… Became. A blink from sleeping to full awareness. It was, in full honesty, a smidgeon eerie to witness.

"Are you okay Harry?"

Alana cast a quick, quizzical scan of the girl in question. Her breathing was fine, deep and steady. Her complexion, while pale, did not seem clammy or pallid. Her movements were fluid, easy, no tremble or shake to be found in finger or arm. If Alana didn't already know that an action such as a quick drop into awareness was telling enough of a nightmare, she would have believed Harry to be rather… Peaceful. That reaction to a nightmare was quite worrying in Alana's eyes, for three main reasons. One, Harry was used to such dreams and terrors if she handled them so elegantly. Two, with such a muted reaction came a tendency to compartmentalize problems, to lock them away and brush them off. Finally, three, Harry was good… Real good at hiding her base emotion and true state of being.

"Please don't try and analyse me."

Harry's voice was soft, light, but there was something lurking underneath all that silk and velvet. A bite, a venom. A mottled warning. Alana jolted from her mental reflections and for a moment, she felt entirely too sheepish for being a thirty-three-year-old. Nonetheless, Harry's placating smile, dimpled and all white tooth, was enough for Alana to glide over anymore observations or weariness of that caution that was enveloped in Harry's tone. She really did have a beautiful smile. Cherubic abandonment.

"I'm fine, really. Just a nightmare."

Harry shrugged. It was to be expected, Alana knew. Furthermore, Harry's readily admittance of suffering from unpleasant dreams made her rethink any second guesses she had previously given Harry and her sudden and almost tranquil awakening. Alana had been given her nieces files. Saw with her own eyes through other's words, all clinical and detached and frigidly factual, what her young niece had lived through. Survived. Nightmares would be only natural. Keeping her eyes on the long, winding road into town, Alana kept her voice as calm and as welcoming as she could.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry looked straight ahead, down the same road and her voice felt like an elastic band being snapped against the soft skin of the inside of Alana's wrist. Swift and with a sting.

"No."

Alana frowned but kept her mouth shut. She couldn't push Harry into talking, that would only exacerbate the problem. Harry needed to come to her, when she felt comfortable, safe. Still, the quick and resolute denial hurt. Furthermore, that little pit of worry in Alana's gut began to squirm to life once more. Harry couldn't keep it all in, not forever. She needed to talk to someone, anyone. It was the only way to heal. Perhaps Alana should start trying to contact a psychiatrist...

Alana felt Harry's gaze travel back to her, felt the scorch and burn of a leveled, dead stare into the side of her face before it became soft, shy, coy almost. It was a quick shift, so fast, Alana idly wondered if she felt the undiluted rage aimed at her in the first place or imagined it. This time, there was no warning in Harry's voice, no coiled viper, just a timid sort of bashfulness and Alana really did think she had imagined the whole thing. Harry sounded so small, so lost, scared, how could she have possibly been anything else in that moment? Surely, she couldn't be? No. Harry hadn't.

"I'm claustrophobic. Sometimes I dream I'm back in that… Cupboard and the only way out is to punch myself to freedom. Not very imaginative, I admit, but, there it is. My little nightmare."

Alana winced as her hands tightened on the steering wheel at being none too gently reminded of the neglect and abuse her small niece had suffered. The speedometer picked up an extra five mph. In part, Alana had done that. In part, _she_ had left Harry to that life. Of course, she had not known she even had a niece until a few months back, or even that her sweet sister was dead and gone, she had ran and drifted to far from her family. Still… Still. If she had of sent a letter, just one. Picked up a phone. Visited…

For a second, Alana thought she saw Harry smirk, a twisted little grin, all starving beast and mutation, from the corner of her eye but it was gone before it was really even there and Alana chalked it up to feeling tired, the topic of conversation and an overwhelming tide of guilt that lapped up her throat. Strong. Alana needed to be strong, for Harry. Blindly, Alana reached over and laid palm against jean clad thigh, squeezing soothingly. Who she was trying to comfort, herself or Harry, well, that line blurred somewhere between the gearstick and the radio.

"What they did to you… How Petunia and Vernon treated you… None of it was your fault, Harry."

Gently, Harry shirked off Alana's hand by wiggling her leg closer to herself. Bit by bit. Action by action. Word by word. Alana would reach her niece. It would take time for Alana to earn Harry's trust, her confidence. Alana could wait. She was patient. Now, Harry was back to staring out her own window, allowing the bitter breeze to rustle her loose curls from her face.

Her hair was too short to put into a high bun, just barely brushing delicate shoulder, but Harry had wrangled the top half into a twining bulb, leaving the bottom to flutter away. Through it, like she had done everyday Alana had saw her, she used a… Interesting hair chopstick to keep the whole thing together. It was long, thin with what looked like a handle at the end. It was a horrid sort of white, blinding in some places, but mottled an aged brown in others, especially the dotted holes just underneath the handle where the tip became thin and pointy. It was the handle itself that was most… Disconcerting. Sharp, jagged in places, but curved, like the knuckle of a joint… Bone. The whole thing looked to be carved out of bone, just long and originally thick enough to fit a forearm. It was beautiful, in a macabre sort of way.

"I like your hair piece Harry. Where did you get it from?"

This time, Alana did look at her. This time, Alana did see a smile, as delicate as her nieces' shoulders, warm but lost somewhere far away. Harry spoke into the wind, her words almost sucked away.

"From a… Mentor called Tom."

Ah, one of her teachers. Alana had heard Harry had been close to some of her teacher back in her boarding school. She couldn't remember reading their names, but Tom was likely one of them. Before Alana could question any further, Harry pulled away from the window and, once again, swiftly changed the subject.

"How far away are we from the university?"

Alana winced.

"Well, I've had to make a little detour."

Harry frowned and turned to fully face her.

"Detour?"

A spike of nerves hit Alana right in her sternum, fizzing like soda.

"One of my colleagues needs my opinion on a case. I want you to stay in the car. I won't be long, and then we can get on our way."

For all the time for Jack Crawford of all people to call her in, he had to choose now. Yet, Alana wouldn't quite write this down as a coincidence yet. When Alana had first discovered her niece, after receiving a letter from Petunia asking for help because she was facing jail time for child neglect and abuse, Alana had tried to pursue every avenue to find Harry. She had been turned away at every single one. They had been polite, friendly, but all dead ends. Her voice was being heard, she knew that, but it had lacked power. Power she had later found in Jack Crawford.

He had helped her find the right people, to ask the right questions, to demand the right things. In return, he had been privy to everything she had. He had gotten Harry's documents and files too. That meant he knew what Harry was capable of. The files they had made that all too clear. At sixteen she had, nearly singlehandedly, tracked and taken down a prolific, genocidal, mass-murderer and his cultish followers. No easy feat. That meant Harry had a very unique set of skills, skills a man like Jack Crawford would like at his disposal, should he need them.

So, no. Alana didn't want Harry anywhere near the FBI or Jack, should she be used like Will Graham was. She was only sixteen for goodness sake! She needed to live like one, not a blood hound. The trauma she had suffered could be deepened by any involvement into Jack's sordid world. Alana couldn't possibly allow that. A soft, gentle hand on her arm, nestling into the crux of her elbow, snatched Alana from her spiralling thoughts. Glancing to her side, she saw Harry, eyes as green as freshly cut grass shining in the sunlight, large, open… Innocent.

"I'm not going to lie and say I'm fine, you'll see right through that, wouldn't you? But I _will_ be fine. I can't hide away forever."

Alana didn't want her to hide away. She simply didn't want her around things, situations or people that could possibly wrought forth terrible memories for her. Harry had only been with her for two weeks, just two, and she was doing magnificently. She had been golden. She spent most of her time reading, and if not reading, she was cooking or outdoors. She was polite, cheerful, a bit dark and morbid in her sense of humour, but otherwise, exactly like all other teenage girls. Dumping her into a situation where she would end up tracking another serial killer could reverse all that.

However, on the flip side, it could bring a sense of comfort and closure to her. Harry, unfortunately, had spent most of her life doing just that. To be back into a familiar routine of sorts, knowing what to do and how to do it, could bring an offer of confidence to her. Still, the risk of the opposite happening was too high. Far too high. Harry's voice turned smooth, sweet and deep, like buttered beer.

"After all, I thought today was about showing me what you did, where you worked, how you lived. A day of bonding, you called it. Isn't this just another part of that? I just want to know what you do with your life, this is another aspect of that. I want to know _you._ "

Alana sagged, defeated.

"Okay, okay, you win. But if Crawford asks you to do anything you are uncomfortable with, you just give me a nod or a wink and we'll leave, okay?"

Harry pulled back as she nodded, grinning. For a long while, all was silent apart from the quiet hum of the car. Then Harry smashed that, like a sledge hammer to a glass vase, with four little words

"Why did you leave?"

It was the first question, personal that is, that Harry had asked Alana in the entirety of the two weeks they had been together. As difficult as this was for Alana, it couldn't have been easy for Harry either. Growing up an orphan, finding family was never easy sailing. Yet, Alana wished Harry had asked anything but this. But, to earn Harry's trust, she needed to be honest, open, as much as she possibly could, even if that openness would hurt like rubbing salt into a wound.

"My mother, your grandmother was… She was a tough person to get along with. She was a lot like Petunia, actually."

Harry gave a dry chuckle, all dead autumn leaves and broken twigs.

"You have my deepest sympathies."

Alana shook her head.

"There was the appropriate amount of arguments in the home when that house is filled with three female teenagers, but nothing so extreme. There was no abu-"

Alana cut herself off. There was no point in reminding Harry of her own past, she likely knew it better than anyone ever could. Neither would it be beneficial to point out that Alana had a better childhood. That would only birth resentment. Slowly, she collected herself and began again. Baby steps, for both of them.

"But there was always a feeling of being trapped. Me and your mother used to make up fantasies of running off together. We were planning on building a tea-shop over in Brazil at one point. We were going to call it The Garden. When Lily was accepted into that gifted school, our family became more… Strained."

Harry inclined her head, as if she had been expecting just that. Perhaps she was.

"With my mother gone, you felt every bit more the outsider."

It was odd, having it pointed out to her, but yes. With Lily gone, that feeling of looking in, being on the outside, only grew inside of Alana when she was younger.

"I'll be honest with you Harry, in the beginning, I was very much jealous of Lily. After a visit from one of her teachers from her new boarding school, mother kept insisting she was special, unique, though she never told us why. One night, Lily and Petunia ventured out together while I stayed home with a cold. Gosh, they must have been around thirteen at the time. I had barely turned seven. Or was it six?"

Alana flipped the indicator and turned right. They would be there soon.

"Something happened that day. Petunia refused to speak of it, but her view of Lily became warped. She believed Lily was a freak, and with mother's insistence that Lily was special, it only drove Petunia wilder in her accusations. At one dinner, Petunia dumped a whole basin of water over Lily, expecting her to melt. She kept saying that witches were unnatural."

Harry's laughter was almost booming in its intensity and very nearly, Alana almost swerved her car right into a tree lining the side of the road. When Harry spoke, it was through the roar of her chuckles dying off.

"You _thought_ aunt Petunia was delusional? Fucking brilliant."

Alana sighed.

"I believe Petunia wished for the same admiration from mother Lily garnered, and in so, was given to more… Impractical beliefs into reasoning why mother loved Lily so. Petunia had always been given to strong imagination."

Harry tutted.

"So, with my mother and aunt Petunia at odds, you got the hell out of dodge while you could."

Alana wished it had all been that simple. She really did. A delusional sister, a need to escape, but life was never so black and white.

"My mother didn't want me to be caught in the middle of their dispute. She sent me away to another boarding school at a young age. From there I… Drifted. Eventually, I went to university, began my career in psychology, started my own practice and soon, years were going by without me even noticing I had not spoken to either of my sisters."

Suddenly, there was a chill in the air. Keen, mewling, nibbling. It had nothing to do with Baltimore's weather, nor the open car windows, but everything to do with the steady gaze Harry locked onto Alana.

"You changed your name."

Alana tried to laugh the chill off.

"I did. Delilah never suited me."

Harry's head cocked to the side, inquisitive, playful maybe, predatory almost.

"Changing your name means you didn't _Drift._ You wanted out, you got out and you stayed out. You emigrated, changed your name and you never looked back. Not even once. Your own parents _died_ , your sister _died_ , her husband _died_ and not once, not for a moment, did you ever glance behind your back to see the bodies piling up. Please, don't start lying to me now. You wanted gone and you got gone. There was no accident in that."

Alana felt like someone had reached into her ribcage, wrapped their small hands around her heart and crushed. There was a low hum in her ears, the rattle of a breath, the tightening of her hands and she was spluttering back before she could fully form a thought.

"I-… Yes. Perhaps I did."

The chill broke and something like an excited buzz thrummed between Harry and Alana as the younger smiled brightly. It was like there had been a switch, night and day, winter and summer, life and death, joy and sorrow, and in a flash, Harry had flipped it. Once again, it was so fast, so swift, so fleeting, Alana was left questioning her own emotional state, mental wellbeing and imagination on whether it truly happened or not. Nonetheless, Alana had come to more of an understanding than just her need to run back in her younger days. She needed to be strong. She couldn't escape anymore. She needed to be strong. Harry needed her. Harry's next words only broke her heart further.

"I'm not angry at you. Running sounds nice. I'm glad you got out while you still could. It got very dark back there. Bright, friendly, loving people like you don't really survive in the darkness. Not for long."

Alana cut Harry a sad little look. She could feel the sorrow, the pain, the pity pulling tightly on her skin, trawling.

"You did."

Harry smiled at her, but it never reached her eyes. Finally, Alana pulled up to the parking lot, sliding into the mess of cars, scanning the scenery to find an eligible space. When she eventually parked, the dam she had inside of her, the one holding it all back, every word, every regret, every broken promise burst like a balloon.

"I should have been there, for you and Lily. I should have sent a letter sooner. I should have-"

"Don't. Please… Don't. Wishes are inconsequential. What is done is done. _Ad initium novum._ "

Alana blinked in surprise. Latin. Harry spoke Latin. Quite proficiently by the roll and accent her voice took. Steadily, Alana pieced herself back together, calmed her heart, wrangled in her thoughts and stiffened her shoulders. Be strong. For her. For Harry.

"Yes, Harry. _To a new start._ I'm here now. As long as you want me, need me, I will be here. I promise."

Harry unbuckled her seatbelt, swung the door open and stepped out, pausing for a brief moment. Slowly, she spoke to Alana, face away, a lonely silhouette. That bone white carven stick glinted in the morning sun.

"Let's hope neither of us live long enough for you to come to regret that promise."

Then the car door slammed shut.

* * *

 **How was it? Any good?**

I got a little perverse kick at writing about Harry having, keeping close and using Voldemort's old wand. It's sort of like a trophy for her, but at the same time, a very real sorrowful reminder of what she had and what she's lost. What she was and what she's becoming. After all, the way I see it, Harry is used to carrying around something of Tom's, she was his Horcrux after all, and I think, now that that link has broken, a connection in this fic which is going to be heavily explored, she would find some sort of torturous comfort in having something else of his close at hand. I also really liked 'recycling' Tom Riddle's old quotes and throwing them back at Harry in a more warped and unstable context. However, I am a bit shaky on how I portrayed Alana Bloom here, but I'm hoping I can iron her character out better the longer I write her. Honestly, I'm trying as much as I can to keep most characters as close as their canon counterparts, with some obvious liberties taken, so just, please, give me a little while to get them as straight as I can lol.

Either way, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I had some real fun writing it.

 **If you want to see more, have some thoughts or theories you'd like to share, have a little idea you might want to see happen (If used you'll be accredited, of course), or anything really, please drop a review! I love hearing from you all.**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER TWO: GOBLIN GOULASH: PART ONE.**

* * *

 **Will Graham's P.O.V**

To say Will Graham's line of work left a somewhat acrid taste in his palate would be under-exaggerating. Since the Minnesota Shrike's death, at his own hands at that, everything had turned a repugnant shade of sour. Abigail Hobbs's survival, left comatose in John Hopkins hospital, malformed to something acidic in the light of Will's involvement in leaving the poor girl orphaned. His own dreams, now normally haunted by the pallid, bloated and rotten face of Garret Jacob Hobbs became bitter reminders of just how easy it was, for him, to pull that trigger and unleash ten bullets into the man. Jack Crawford's continual push of him, the lack of respite from his ever-churning mind became nothing but a tart reflection of entrapment. There was no rest for him, no escape, no haven to hide in. Will couldn't run from his own mind, and really, that was where his true demons slumbered.

Or perhaps, and more hopefully, this new case had simply worn him thin. Nine shallow graves, victims buried alive and, of course, the highlight of such a gruesome discovery, the cultivation of fungi upon the victims as their heart still beat. Like many times, Crawford had called him in, let him inspect the site and as Jack would call it, _do his thing._ However, half way through doing his 'thing', a vision of Hobbs hit him. One moment he was alone, in control, going through those sick motions, recreating the killers design and then, Hobbs was there, staring at him from the sunken pit and there was so much noise, running, steps…

A victim was alive, face half rotten, flesh peeling and falling and teeth gnashing in silent screams and pleas, but still breathing and Will had been lost to his imagination. The poor bastard had been carted away in an ambulance and died an hour later, from what Will had heard. Luckily, Will's panic had been written off as a reaction to the suddenly very mobile and loud corpse, and not to what it truly was, facing his own phantom victim staring up at him with a milky gaze.

Still, Will had planned to retreat, to contact Dr. Lecter and request another psych eval, he shouldn't be out on the field, not like this, not when he heard gunshots every time he closed his eyes, when, of all people, Jack beat him to the punch line. Jack rang Dr. Lecter, requested for the man to meet him in his office back at the BAU, hung up pretty quickly, made another clipped phone call to someone else, and soon, was herding Will to his car like he was a sheep dog.

So, here Will Graham was. Sitting in a chair. Tired. Slightly aggravated. Missing the simplicity of his dogs or a good fishing trip. Hannibal had arrived at Jack's office not five minutes ago, and still, Jack sat behind his desk, twiddled his thumbs and arranged a few files upon his desk. Maybe it would have been more bearable, this silence and stagnation in leather plush, if Crawford deemed it wise to inform either of them of exactly what they were doing and why.

"Are we actually going to work at any point today jack? Or can I go home?"

Will needed some Tylenol, a blanket, the soft padding of his dog's feet on hardwood and sleep. _Dreamless sleep._ Jack was in no mood to offer any sanctuary to Will today though, as he cut him a sharp glance.

"We are waiting for a guest."

Once again, the room lapsed into crushing silence. For all Will knew, he was never one to be good at keeping time, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes could have passed before there was a rattling knock on Crawford's door before the tell-tale jingle of the handle turned, tempting the three inhabitants to turn their gazes towards the frosted glass.

Alana Bloom walked in, heels clacking against the linoleum, back straight and stiff. Jack smiled, Will stared, and always the polite gentleman, Hannibal stood, nodding his greeting off as he spoke.

"Dr. Bloom, I didn't expect to see you here."

Will knew straight away something wasn't quite right with Alana. Her joints were more locked then normal, her stride stronger, her shoulders held further back and her sight never strayed from Jack's smiling face, even though she was being spoken to. This wasn't a friendly visit, that much was clear. Alana had been the other person Jack had called, and by her heavily drawn down brows, she wished to be anywhere but here. Will knew the feeling, although, normally Alana never followed his suit. Jack, as always, missed all these signs, or perhaps willfully ignored them as he was often to do when faced with something that didn't factor into his plans and amicably airbrushed over the tension.

"That is because I invited her to our little meeting of the minds today."

Alana made it to Jack's desk, skirting around the vacant seats. Ah. She didn't plan to stay for long then. Not if she wasn't about to sit. Still, something had lured her here and Will highly doubted it was the percolated coffee on offer that tasted like socks and green beans. It was only as she stopped that Will realized she wasn't, and hadn't, been staring at Jack like he first assumed.

Her gaze was too low, dropping more with each step until, so close to the desk, she was looking down her nose. Following the trail, Will found what had caught her attention. A file. Thick. More chunky than most. Curled at the edges, well read, but looked after. Some paper, yellow, old, others new in their pristine whiteness. An ongoing file. On the front was two words stamped, ink black and fresh.

 _Hemlock Potter._

Another killer? No. Reactions didn't fit. Tension was too tight. Too personal. Alana scoffed, waving a lazy hand in the files direction, finally turning her hot scrutiny to the boss man himself, Jack.

"Or was it really me you were inviting Jack? You do not waist time, do you?"

Will had never heard Alana sound quite like she did then. Concealed rage. Slight hurt. Anxious but… Professionally cold. Frigid. This time, Jack did pick up on the current whirling around them and looked slightly uncomfortable.

"Well, I see you are alone, so I doubt my invitation was extended as I hoped it would be."

Like Winston with his lamb bone, Jack could not drop it, whatever that _it_ turned out to be. With more force than necessary, a testament to the climbing emotions within her, Alana ripped her handbag free from her shoulder, carelessly throwing it into an empty chair as she braced her hands against Jack's desk, fingers splayed, palms flat, cocking a hip as she bared over the rosewood, shadow looming, invading Jack's space. Crawford didn't back down or away.

"I should have left her at home. I should have never answered your phone call. What are you thinking Jack? Are you even thinking? You know what she has been through and not two weeks have passed before you are trying to haggle her into your world! Have you no decency?"

Jack tilted his head and daringly popped a brow imperiously high.

"Should have?"

Alana huffed, pushing away from the desk as she seemingly debated whether to storm away or towards Jack, lost in a whirlpool, trapped in a defence or offense instinct. By her side, her fist clenched, her jaw locked, and she hissed through clamped teeth.

"Is that really what you are taking away from this?"

It was too much. All of it. The dreams. The visions. The murders, Jack and Alana butting heads… Just some quiet, that was all Will was asking for and not for one day, one measly day, could he ever gain that tranquillity. If he wasn't being disgusted by his own mind, his imagination as Hannibal called it, he was being tormented by other's emotions, invaded by spectral horrors.

Enough was enough. If Jack wasn't going to put him to work, instead choosing to bicker over a topic Will knew nothing about, then he wanted to go home. Breathing in heavily from his nostrils, Will clenched his own fist, raised it to his lips and coughed none too gently or subtly. The respectful reminder that the two weren't alone was enough to break them apart from their battle of wills as their locked gazes fled from each other. Defeatedly, Alana slumped into a chair and spoke in the direction of a bookcase.

"She's getting a cup of tea from the breakroom. She'll be here soon."

Before the silence could really form a tangible mass around them, a safety blanket, Hannibal broke it.

"She?"

The smile was back on Jack's face, teeth almost blinding as he regarded Dr. Lecter, folding his hands onto his desk, right by the file that Alana had once again taken to staring at.

"Dr. Bloom here has a remarkable young niece. She-"

Alana's voice sliced through Jacks like a hot knife through sizzling butter. Unrepentant and smoothly.

"I _have_ a traumatized young niece who you are planning to take advantage of. I really should leave. This has been a horrible mistake on my part."

Alana went to stand but Jack was far from finished. He wouldn't be. Not until he won. It was what Will liked about the man, as well as concurrently loathing that stubborn trait too.

"Alana… Please. Your niece can help save lives."

Alana's voice grew incredulous.

"At what cost? Her own? No Jack. No."

Jack looked ready to yell, all pulsing blood vessels and straining vocal cords but, with an equally levelled head and placid, calming voice, Hannibal stepped into the invisible arena.

"As a close colleague of yours Alana, and dare I say friend if it isn't too presumptuous, I should hope my opinion on a matter would be in some form valid in your eyes. Perhaps if you fill us in on the matter, we can assess the situation."

Alana looked torn, like crinkled, moist paper, threatening to tear at its corners and wrinkles. Jack took this momentary bout of compliance to, uncharacteristically, tenderly try and goad Alana into folding. Picking up the thick file, Jack pointedly looked at Alana and jostled the stacked papers wrapped in card.

"Do you mind?"

Alana slid back into her seat, crossed one leg over the other and resolutely gazed at the far wall, nodding eventually. Will could see Crawford visibly deflate and sigh in relief as he held out the file for Hannibal to take. Hannibal made short work of taking the file and beginning to scan its contents, flickering eyes taking a steady pace across the pieces of paper as he absorbed the contents. From the corner of his eye, Will watched.

Hannibal's face remained impressively neutral. Open plains and unblinking eyes. However, there was… Something there. A shadow. A keen glint, like a knife reflecting in a darkened room of an abandoned home. A flare of… Something unnameable right there, in the very far corner of his eye, the recess, squirreled away. Hidden. Ahead of Will trying to dissect that little pop of light, or contour of darkness, Hannibal was folding the file shut and handing it towards him. Wearily, casting a quick glance to Alana to see her still absorbed into that wall, Will took it and began his own research as Hannibal spoke to Jack.

"What was this Voldemort's eventual tally?"

The first thing to greet Will was a simple photo. Black and white. Old. It was of a young man, barely reaching the cusp of adulthood. He was a handsome man, Will would admit. His features were nothing short of regal. His hair was perfectly coiled and slicked to the side, shining a shade of ebony even the monochrome photo couldn't hide. He was dressed in a uniform of sorts… A school uniform, with a crest upon his breast, something wrapping in a shield… A snake. He was unrepentantly, almost daringly, staring straight back at the camera, right at the beholder and his eyes were… Dead. No spark. No life. Nothing. Dead and dust and utterly chilling. Other than that, there was nothing to be had. No name. No date. It was as desolate as the man in the photo's eyes.

Behind that photo was another. Newer. In colour. This one was of a young woman. For a moment, Will thought he was looking at the previous one's sister or daughter perhaps. They had the same eye shape, sleek and cattish. Their noses fell straight and thinly proud. They both lacked cupid bows too, leaving an almost doll like presence to their features, if it weren't for all the sharp angles their other features took. However, the differences between the two suddenly became very clear. This one was smiling, widely, sharp, white teeth and dimples on full show. Her hair was more… Independent, spiralling around her like smoke. She wore the same uniform as the man, but her crest was red and gold and had a lion imprinted upon the shield, and while the mans had been pristinely layered upon him, this woman's were hardly wrangled on, wrinkled around the neck of her sweater, oxford shirt unbuttoned and collar curling at the edges.

Mainly, it was the eyes that splintered the two apart better than even their genders could. Her eyes were a very unusual shade of green. So bright Will thought the photo might have been doctored. But no. They were real. You couldn't fake that sort of bright life. That almost unholy spirit shining true and unashamedly. It was jacks voice which brought Will out of the photo and turned him to flicking through the rest of the documents.

"Officially? Eighteen. Unofficially? We begin to climb into the high triple digits. That, of course, is not counting the actions of his so-called followers."

The case started out innocuous enough. An orphan being left with her aunt and uncle after the callous slaughter of her parents… But the longer Will read, the larger the disbelief came. Quests for immortality. Assassinations. Obsessions. Bombings. Spies. Attempted murder. Actual murder. Cults. Espionage. Death. Lots of death. So much so, Will could almost smell that sickly scent of bloated corpses whiffing from the paper he was holding. All centring around a child. A young girl. Like she had gone super-nova and the world around her, all jarring shards of insanity, death and loss was being pulled into her decaying orbit. Wills hands shook almost violently as he snapped the file closed and pushed it onto the table. Away. Far away.

"And you want to dump her back into that world, Jack. Do you understand why I find this repugnant?"

Alana finally spoke as her stare drifted its way back to Jack, who in turn, sighed.

"And you must see why this is a course of action I must take. The girl has skills Alana. Valuable skills. Skills our team could use."

Will didn't need to ask or wonder what that bone was that Jack was slobbering over now. It was the girl. Alana's niece. Hemlock Potter. The fact that the girl had skills was unarguable. She had taken on a very prolific, very intelligent, very charming psychopath along with his likely armoured and indoctrinated followers. Even at twelve, when she was telling others of his arrival, his plans, pointing out his followers from crowds of bodies, they had ignored her, even when what she had warned them of became horrible truth. Somehow, a child had done what many fully-grown men and women couldn't. What special agents couldn't. She _saw._ And that alone was a very terrifying gift to have. Will knew that all too well.

For a heartbeat, Will wanted to tell Alana to get her niece and run. Just run. Don't look back. Jack Crawford had said the same thing about him once, and look where he had ended up? Constant headaches, restless horror-struck dreams, a mind that couldn't turn off and blood… Real, warm, coppery blood upon his hands, crusting underneath his fingernails. Of course, Jack hadn't forced him to kill the Minnesota Shrike, that had been all Will, terrible, lonely Will, but it was undisputable that without Jack Crawford, Will would have never landed on the path he had. Yet, when he spoke, voice cracking, none of this came out.

"How old is she?"

Alana looked so sad then as she turned to face him and Will _saw_. He saw wilted fields. Crooked trees. Muddy bogs. Dead lands for dead things and thoughts.

"She's sixteen Will. _Sixteen_."

Will winced, eyes crinkling tight as he took off his glasses, roughly scrubbing at his eyes. As Jack had done to him, he didn't give in. He wouldn't, Will knew now. No matter what, Jack Crawford got what he wanted and currently, he wanted the girl.

"Nearly seventeen and holding a good track record in finding serial killers. Come on people, we know Alana's opinion on the matter, what are yours? Will, what do you think?"

What did he think? He thought Jack was a good man. A great man. But he always looked at the bigger picture. He couldn't focus on the characters of the grand play, just the ending and that… That was dangerous. The road to hell was pathed with good intentions and more than once, Jack Crawford had laid a shiny, golden brick down on his yellow path to oz. Perhaps Alana would be ignored. Perhaps Jack wouldn't let go of this. But Will… Will could try and divert the path. He might not have been able to save himself from this dismal life of solitude and nightmares, but he could save this girl.

"I think she's a very young person who has been through a lot. I think it is highly unnecessary for any of us to add more to that already high pile weighting her down."

That would be if Jack didn't have a white knight in his corner, going by the name of Hannibal.

"On the contrary wise, I believe this could be just what she needs. Up until a very recent point, this sort of work has been all she has known. To completely cut her off from that routine, that knowledge, could and would likely be detrimental in her overarching process of healing and closure."

Will shook his head, curls fluttering.

"Or we could be adding the last bag onto the donkey that breaks its back. She's not a buckaroo toy to mess around with. She's a human being."

How many more bags and sticks and little carrots could Will take before he too buckled and kicked? Will didn't know, and it scared him. Petrified him. Did this girl feel the same fear? Hannibal pressed forward, balancing elbows on knees and interlaced his hands. Will found his eyes trailing to his, locking in, like the twist of a jail cell key.

"We have to look at this subjectively Will. The world outside this building, this line of work, what most would call normality, could possibly be a very foreign and very difficult climate for this Hemlock to accustomize herself to. This could add stability for her."

Perhaps he was right. If the girl was anything like him, well, the outside world was a confusing place indeed. What did Will have outside this building? Outside this work? Outside the tracking and puzzles and emotional leakage? His dogs and fishing. Nothing else. Nothing more. Still, she could be different. There was hope for her.

Just as he opened his mouth to argue, a voice from the corner, just behind Hannibal by the filing cabinets piped up. It was a new voice, British accent strong and fluid and Will jumped. So did Alana and Jack and even Hannibal's head cocked as he turned around slowly, surprised by the newcomer none of them had heard enter, nor saw walk to the other side of the room.

"Or, you know, the answer to this little dilemma could be that it is, after all, my choice and my choice alone to do or not do what is offered."

In the flesh, She was so utterly different to her photo. She was unbound. Free. _Intense._ For a split moment, he saw her in crystalline form. Reflective, transparent, and yet, she held so many remarkable colours trapped inside of her prism. So many. Too many to count. All of them. He saw the world in white, snow, clean, sharp and she was there, leaving a trail of colour through the dreary winter abode. Everywhere she touched, a rainbow was left behind. Everywhere she stepped, Van Gogh's florescent colour pallet prevailed. However… Something was wrong. She was chipped and shattered, little cracks splintering over her. A hole, wide, cutting, had been dug out from her chest, just wide enough to fit a fist through the crystal being and it wept _._ It seeped. It _bled._ There was no colour to be found in that wound or blood, just black. Oozing, thick, boiling oil slick that ate away at everything. Anything. He blinked and the image was gone.

"Sorry, I couldn't help it. You were all so caught up in arguing over a hypothetical morality of a what if situation, I felt it hard to disrupt that. Debate is the backbone of democracy, they say."

She smiled, that same wolfish smile her photo counterpart housed, and took a sip at the Styrofoam cup she was holding. Alana turned stern.

"Harry, I told you to get a cup of tea while I had a quick chat."

Hemlock, or Harry as Alana called her, grinned further and wiggled the cup in her hands clearly.

"I got my cup of tea and you've had a chat. I was taught it was rude to speak of others if they're not present. Especially if that conversation is dictated to questioning their _mental stability._ "

Will Grimaced and turned away from Harry. He knew that feeling all to well. The scrutiny. _Are you breaking Will?_ God. He was sick of that question. Harry likely was too. Jack stood from his desk and walked over to the small woman, offering his hand.

"You're correct, it is. My name is Jack Crawford, these are my associates, Dr. Lecter and Will Graham. It is a pleasure to meet you Hemlock, or is it Harry?"

Harry shook his hand. Just twice. Sharply. Strong grip. She was used to having a leadership role Will would guess.

"Harry is preferred."

Hannibal interjected himself fluently.

"And what is it you wish to do?"

Harry shrugged noncommittally.

"I _wish_ for an endless amount of treacle tarts, whiskey and a tranquil cottage near a beach somewhere. However, I'll settle for getting a serial killer off the streets."

Alana hustled her way to Harry, shouldering Jack back and away from her niece as she laid a palm on the younger's shoulder. Will saw the reaction, as minute as it was. There was hardly anything he didn't see. She tensed. There was a twitch in her jaw. The lid of her right eye spasmed just a fraction and Will knew, just knew, she was fighting not to yank that hand off her. She didn't like unsolicited touch. Another thing Will could relate to.

"You don't have to do this Harry."

Hannibal stood, taking the time to rebutton his suit jacket. His voice, as always, was polite, deep and steady, but there it was. Whatever it had been Will had momentarily saw within his eye was now lurking in his voice.

"If this situation worries you so Alana, I can offer my assistance?"

Will chuckled dryly and was cut a few glances for his effort. He knew where this was heading. Harry, like him, didn't look to be the type to enjoy therapy either. Alana, though, turned out to be as stubborn as Jack on certain topics.

"If you agree to this Harry, I want you to at least try Therapy. That's the deal. I am still your guardian."

In response to the threat of forced therapy, Harry did shirk off the hand, pulling at the hem of her knitted blue jumper in an act, Will saw, to calm herself. To most eyes, she likely looked nervous. But not to him. She was _angry._ Still, Will didn't blame her agitation. Talking about his feelings wasn't on top of his to-do list either and yet, he too had been hooked into weekly sessions. He almost felt sorry for the girl. Almost.

"One session."

Alana huffed and went to touch Harry again at her proclamation, but the small woman was detaching herself from the corner, passed Alana and the others, gliding over to a chair furthest away and sitting. Hannibal followed her example and sat back down as Alana began to bargain.

"Three."

Harry snapped her gaze to Alana.

"One."

Alana jaw's clenched.

"One, but if you get comfortable enough, you promise me you'll agree to further sessions."

Harry tapped her finger against her steaming cup of tea. Tap. Tap. Tap. Finally, she nodded. Good. At least the girl knew when to pick her battles. It would make this a whole lot easier for her.

"Agreed. Now are we actually going to get to work or not?"

Alana blinked, walked back to her deserted chair and picked up her handback, slinging it over her shoulder.

"I do not wish to be here for this. I'll wait for you in the car Harry, okay?"

Will couldn't be the only one who didn't miss the fact that Harry didn't even look in Alana's direction as the psychiatrist went to leave. Strained relationship? No. Arguments? Nope. New? Yes. Their relationship was new. Neither Harry nor Alana knew exactly how to navigate those waters and they were struggling to connect in a way either of them could understand. Before Alana could leave, Hannibal addressed her one last time.

"I have an open space for an appointment this Friday. I'll give Hemlock the details later, before she leaves."

Harry grimaced at the use of her actual name, flinching in within herself at the mere mention of it. It reminded her of something or someone. Perhaps her parents. Either way, she didn't like her name and Will mentally reminded himself to call her Harry. When the clack of the office door proclaimed Alana's retreat, Jack became animated. Retrieving a file from his desk, he handed the file over to Harry who took to leisurely flicking through it as Jack debriefed her.

"Some kids, while hiking, stumbled across a rather grizzly find. Nine bodies, all laid perfectly straight, were later exhumed from the site. From our forensic tests completed so far, we can say they were buried alive, kept so as long as possible, Intravenous drips were used, in what we currently believe in what was an attempt to keep them sedated. As you can see from the pictures you're currently holding, our killer was using these people as fertilizer for his little mushroom garden."

Harry stopped at one particular photo, held it up and tilted her head at it, whistling lowly.

"Well, I bet he's a Fungi to be around. Fungi… Fun-guy… No takers? Alright."

Unwillingly, a little half choking half chuckle noise broke free through Will's nose as Harry flipped the photo back into the folder and closed it. He didn't know whether he was more surprised over Harry's reaction to seeing corpses littered with mushrooms or whether the joke was so bad it was sort of good, in that sore, cringing way.

"Do you normally make jokes in the light of such circumstances?"

Harry glanced at Hannibal an cocked a defiant brow.

"If you're asking whether I prefer to laugh at death rather than weep and cry at the very sight of it, when I've already seen so many faces of that beast, then yes. I prefer the former. I've heard humour is just another coping mechanism people use."

 _People use._ Not her. Other people. There was a clear line she had drawn then, hidden between vowels and consonants. Me and them. Different. Slyly, she was trying to prod Hannibal into arguing with her, goading him into disputing it, disputing her, and in so, labelling her unstable and therefore not fit for either this case nor therapy. How… Interesting. Underhanded, but intelligent. She was used to playing war games with words. Now it was Jacks turn to cough and try and get everything back on track.

"Do you… See anything? Feel anything?"

Harry broke stare with Hannibal and unceremoniously threw the file back onto Jack's desk. Will watched as it skid, barely hanging onto the ledge as it teetered off, balancing precariously.

"I think you don't quite understand what it is I do. Corpses… Forensic data… None of it means anything to me. I can't magically look at a photo and know a person's emotional state. However…"

Harry leant forwards, still tapping on her cup in sets of two beats, like a heart monitor, spiking up and up and up.

"Give me motive, tell me the driving force pushing this person, give me a hint of why he's doing what he's doing and well… I can tell you what he plans to do next. Where he'll do it. Where he's likely stationed himself. What his job is and how often he needs to… Express his emotions."

Hannibal smiled and leant back in his own chair.

"Like the limbic system."

Jack scowled, eyes dark and slightly confused.

"Excuse me Dr?"

Hannibal, however, was more interested in scanning not only Harry, but Will too and Will couldn't stop the slight uncomfortable shift he gave in his own seat.

"The limbic system is a part of our brains, Jack. It manages a variety of functions including emotion, behaviour, motivation, long-term memory, and olfaction. Will here, due to his empathic nature and imagination, can reconstruct a persons emotional and motivational state. Harry, I believe, draws from those emotions and motivations and can conclude it all into their behavioural pattern. That would take a highly pragmatic, analytical and survivalist mind to accomplish. The emotions all people hold drive us, even in killing. Behaviour is normally used as a valve to express those emotions, and yet restrain them enough to ensure survival. It is why people do not jump off buildings because they wish to feel how it feels to fly. There are two stages to emotional outlets. Stage one is the feeling itself, thought upon acting it out, expressing it. Stage two is the action, the how, the where, the when and if need be, if the expression of the emotion is detrimental, the restraint of it. Will undoubtedly maps out stage one. Hemlock, I believe, specializes in stage two. Together, they recreate the limbic system in human form. Very impressive and decisively recherché."

Jack rubbed at his forehead, one hand pressing into his hip.

"So, let me get this straight. With Wills help, he and Harry can what? Reconstruct this person so vividly, they can tell me where to find him?"

There was a twitch to Hannibal's lips, a tightening and Will wanted nothing more than to scour it off with sandpaper. It was alright from the other side, looking in, analysing, but here, from where he was sitting… Harry now, too, it felt invasive. To be whittled down so thoroughly, to your base components… Why not just lock them up in a zoo and be done with it? Perhaps Will could have more peace that way.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they could both come to say what colour shoes he or she prefers."

Jack smelt blood in the water, a trail, and then he was zeroing in on Will.

"Well, what are we waiting for? Care to fill in Harry of your own findings?"

Will swallowed. It was never easy sharing, opening up that part of himself, laying it out for others to see. Still, like always, he would grin and bear it.

"Connection. The killer is after connection."

Those feelings he felt back at the crime scene came flooding back, like they had never really left. He had to remind himself they weren't his. That wasn't his design. He _didn't_ have designs. He wasn't a killer… Well, that was only partially true, wasn't it? Will killed Garret Jacob Hobbs, but that was different… Wasn't it? Distance. He knew who he was. He wasn't like _them._

"How long has this killer been looking for a connection? Recently? Due to a loss of some sort?"

Like a track on repeat, it was Harry's soft voice that lulled him out of his visions, his imagination, and back into the room. Will, however, refused to look at her as he composed himself. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Simple.

"From an early age. The… Need has always been there for him. He needs it like air."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Harry's rebellious onyx curls bounce as she nodded.

"Right. We're the killer."

She clapped and stood, gaining energy as she began to pace around in swerving paths around the small office. She began to shine then. Like a comet, fast, unpredictable, blazing an icy trail in the night as something familiar came back to her. It was sort of… Beautiful. In a chaotic way, but beautiful none the less.

" _You're_ his emotions, _I'm_ his behaviour. We're young. Unexperienced. Raw. We want connection, but we don't know how. So… We experiment."

Yes… Yes. Will stood too, leaning against his chair, propped by his hip, crossing his arms over his chest, solid and still.

"Yes. Simple things at first. Failed friendships. Short relationships. Fragmented and disjointed meetings. Nothing works. The need turns sour but still fascinating. How does it all work? How do people connect so easily? Why are we excluded?"

She swung towards him, darting over with swift and quiet steps, leaning in, pausing momentarily as she spoke. Her hands became a blur of motion, fluidity, physically manifesting the swirling thoughts raining in her mind.

"So, connection to people have failed us, but we witness it happen every day. Connection isn't just a human trait. So we look elsewhere. Botany obviously. Root systems, ecosystems, anything that has connections within. That's where our little fungi obsession begins. It's never been about the victims, but the fungi and what they represent. To them, it's so natural. If we understand how the Fungi connect, we can perhaps begin to understand how humans do it."

Then she was off again, circling, spiralling and perhaps, really, it was Will who was going super-nova and Harry was now caught in his doomed orbit. Will waved his hand, as if he was flapping away a bad smell.

"Invalid data. We can't see the correlation. There's something there, but it's not enough. It doesn't fill the void or need for establishing our own connections. The feeling of being alone in this vast universe only gets worse. More repugnant. We _need_ to fix that."

It was like the room had been hallowed out, Jack, Hannibal, the chairs and files disintegrating right around him. There was only the super-nova sun, the chaotic asteroid and endless movement. Nothing was stagnant. Nothing was still. All felt that thrum and pulse of the magnetic energy fluctuating. Harry, the comet, picked up speed.

"But we haven't quite lost it yet. No. We branch out further. However, we stick to science-based subjects. That's where the facts are. That's where we're going to find our truth. If anywhere at all we will learn how to connect, it will be in a factual, undisputed setting so there can be no doubt. Biology. Anatomy. Chemistry…"

 _Bang._ Sudden stillness. Tranquillity. Silence. Utter calm. Finally, Will looked into Harry's eyes directly and he knew, _knew,_ she came to the same secluded conclusion he had and as one, they spoke.

"Pharmacology."

Jack waded in, watching on with slightly widened eyed.

"Did I miss something?"

Will jumped slightly, just a little jerk, as he remembered he wasn't alone with Harry, was not in an endless sky, there was no comets or stars. Pulling his glasses free once more, he used the hem of his shirt to clean them as he answered a bewildered Jack.

"He's a pharmacist. For one, it factures into his obsession into connections and reactions. Two, It's how he's been finding his victims. They're diabetic Jack. He fiddles with their insulin."

Harry stepped in as he fell silent.

"He wouldn't just stay at one establishment. It's too dangerous. Too risky in being caught. However, I'll bet he hasn't gone further than ten miles from his garden. Check the pharmacies within that radius, whittle it down by employees who have shifts at a variety."

Like a game of tennis, they batted back and forth. It was Will's turn to serve.

"Yes, do that. He can't be too far from his precious garden. The… Mulch needs to be fresh for his fungi. Especially when he believes that fungi is what is connecting his victims. In his mind, he's not a killer, he's a unifier."

Harry went and spiked an ace into his court.

"He believes he is gifting them something that has been denied to him. He'll be proud of his work. Protective… And you've gone and trampled all over his little haven, dug up his pansies and spat in his pond. That's just rude."

Will's eyes slid shut and he couldn't tell you whether it was himself or Harry that spoke the dire warning. Perhaps, again, it was both of them.

"He's going to start replanting soon."

* * *

 **Yay or Nay?**

For those of you wondering, magic as we know it from Potterverse will be coming into play soon. I know there hasn't been much of it on _display_ yet, none actually, but trust me on this, Harry hasn't been going muggle completely, and there has been little signs here and there a few individuals have picked up on, like Harry seemingly knowing what Alana was thinking last chapter before she said so, and in this chapter, how she managed to sneak into a room with Hannibal... _Hannibal_ of all people inside without alerting him. I've done this because, in my eyes, the wizarding world flirts with danger. Witches and wizards almost get a little jolt of satisfaction when they do outlandish things around muggles without being caught. It's almost like a game to some, and even Harry isn't exempt from this.

I'm real iffy of my portrayal of Will Graham here, more so than I was Alana, but I'm still hoping I can get them right with time. I don't think there's too much off with him, just that I haven't fully pinned his character down yet, especially his character in early season one which this fic is beginning in. He's unstable at this point, sure, but he isn't completely cracked like we see later on and getting that balance right is harder to achieve than I first thought. Having said that, I really am not ready to tackle a Hannibal P.O.V yet lmao. Hannibal, I've come to find, is one of the worst characters I've ever come across to try and write from their perspective and to keep it accurate to his fundamental character traits and personality. And Hannibal being, well, Hannibal, I really do want to get him right before I bring in his P.O.V, so I'm hoping writing about him from others P.O.V will help situate his character enough for me to delve into. Despite this, Hannibal's P.O.V will come, I promise you that much, but not quite yet.

 **A HUGE THANK YOU** for everyone who followed, favourited and reviewed! This whopping 7k chapter is for you guys and I really do wish that you've enjoyed it!

 ** _As always, drop a review if you have a spare moment. They keep the fingers typing ;)_**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER THREE: GOBLIN GOULASH: PART II**

* * *

 **Harry's P.O.V**

Nihilist is a man who does not bow down before any authority, who does not take any principle on faith, whatever reverence that principle may be enshrined in. So wrote Ivan Turgenev in his book, Fathers and Sons. That one line, that lone sentence had always fascinated Harry since she had first read it back when she was in muggle school. In the beginning, before Voldemort, before the war, back when she was a simple orphan girl whose parents died in a car crash, Harry had loathed the character Bazarov, the cynical nihilist, from that book.

In her child-like eyes, he was everything wrong with the world. He was repugnant. Something to feel pity for. His epistemological scepticism, which negated all knowledge, everyscrap of it, as being continually held as possibly untrue or simply never being able to prove anything, grated on her young nerves. In her naive mind, there was, and could only be, two sides. Wrong. Right.

Bazarov's Moral apathy left her feeling cold. If morality did not exist as an objective reality, a human construct, then really, no action was and is necessarily preferable to any other. All of it was artificial. Killing someone, anyone, for whatever reason, was not inherently right or wrong, it was all subjective to that singular person and reality, from one to another, was a singular experience. A madman's reality was very much different to a midwife, Bazarov would say. Young Harry had sneered at the very notion of such a possibility.

There _was_ Morals. Killing _was_ wrong. Good people did _good_ things. Reality wasn't subjective, it was an unarguable fact. What happened _, happened_. Furthermore, the chance that there was no meaning to life, a fact Bazarov advocated, felt like spit in the face. It had been all so simple, back then.

In the end, Bazarov found himself miserable, retiring back to the countryside, friendless, to help his father in his doctor duties. After botching an autopsy, he contracted blood poisoning and died. To a young Harry, that felt like justice. The empty, hallow man who found nothing in everything kicked the bucket and well, he deserved it. Harry chuckled. _This_ Harry, who was so far removed from the child she used to be, who had faced war, death, torture and pain unnameable, realised something completely disheartening.

 _She was Bazarov._

Truth is entirely personal. Her truth, her life, did not align with others. Muggles would disavow her very existence at the mere possibility. What she classed as universal truth could and would be denied by others, perhaps many, and in turn, she would contest other's truths. Now she understood. Right, wrong, they were just labels. One mans right is another's wrong. Tom Riddle never cast himself as a villain, but as a liberator, an advocate for his people. She too never saw herself shunned in shade, the bogey man. If there were such things as right and wrong, one of them, she and Tom, had to fall into the latter category and if asked, simultaneously, neither would vote for themselves. Then, perhaps you would say, others could and would label who was right and wrong if they, themselves, could not? Not really. Sure, Harry had her champions. Hermione and Ron would shout until they were blue in the face that Harry had been right all along, she had been just… But didn't Tom have his knights too? To Lucius Malfoy, to Rabastan and Rodolphus, to Antonin and Rosier, he was the pure one. Truth, then, became something in the eye of the beholder, not a universal concept.

In that alone, reality became something malleable. Harry's reality was something of a dreamscape, a surrealist interpretation to the average person. Her reality was very, very, very different to many others. Flying on brooms, potions, dragons, goblins, they were just figments of many people's imagination, but to her, they were _real._ The coin could be flipped. Student loans, marriage, mortgages, average nine to five jobs were something of a mythos to her. Why ride a car when she could apparate? Why ring from a phone when she could use the Floo? Others reality was not _her_ reality. However, if reality was a blanket, undeniably general, how could two very different realities co-exist? Harry would tell you. If reality wasn't a universal concept either. If, yet again, reality was subjective. The madman and the midwife could become one, if they were looked upon from different angles.

Additionally, if there was no _true_ truth, if reality was something constructed by individuals intrinsically, then moral principles were, in fact, just another set of intuitive delusions. To many of the wizarding world, she was a hero. The chosen one. _The saviour_. However, to a select few, she was and would likely always be a demon. Ask Hermione about her choices, and then ask Bellatrix, if she were still alive, and well, you would end up with two very polarizing views of one person. So far from each other, Harry would guess, the two couldn't possibly be the same individual. And yet, she _was_ one person. There _were_ two views of her, multiple, actually, and they all lived in some form or shape and she _was_ the madman and the midwife, the saviour and the demon, the just and the corrupt.

This all collapsed together in the startling conclusion that, in the light of such possibilities and understanding as she knew it, really, there was no real meaning to life. What had she changed? Nothing. She had _not_ ended blood prejudice just by killing Tom or a handful of his followers. That ideology was too deeply rooted within wizarding society, culture, government and philosophy for just _her_ to stamp out. Yes, she put a stop to the wizarding war… But so had Albus in his time, by slaying Grindlewald and look, Tom had come along right after and Harry was sure, resolute, that another would come again. He would wear a different face, but their soul would be the same. It always was. There would be another her, another Albus and the cycle would start all over again. It had begun with Salazar and Gryffindor, perhaps even further back, and she was not the one to put a stone underneath that turning wheel. On and on it would go.

If so… Then what was the fucking point in the war? What was the point in all the death? What was the point in all the pain and loss and degradation? None. Nothing. Jack fucking shit. She had given up her life, laid down and died and nothing, not one bloody person would ever fucking change. That… That was what made it so tragic.

 _It had all been so utterly, disturbingly hopeless._

"Fathers and sons by Turgenev? An interesting reading choice."

Harry snapped the book closed with an echoing thud that was muted by the rushing crowd around her. This whole place made her feel uneasy. The crowds of couples, families, a little brood of toddling children being led by a teacher, made the museum feel claustrophobic. The noise was grating, the smell was agitating, the whiteness and brightness made her eyes feel sore, people kept brushing up against her invasively close and the emergency exits made no sense. Even the bench Harry had secluded herself away on, in the far corner of the front greeting lobby felt warped and overly cheerful with the little misshapen brightly coloured roses painted onto the wooden surface. What in the name of sweet hell was she doing here? Ah, yes, her reason was standing right in front of her.

Dr Hannibal Lecter… Her _therapist._ He was an impressive man to look upon, she would give him that. He was tall, imposingly so, with keen, slicing features. In fact, everything about him seemed… Sharp somehow. His three-piece suit was impeccably tailored and fixed, no creases in sight. His Italian leather shoes shined almost obnoxiously. Even his tie was, surely, made from expensive silk and pressed to fluid perfection. No doubt, he would have fit in perfectly well in a crowd of purebloods and that made Harry feel queasy for reasons she didn't even want to begin to analyse. This, however, she could glide over. She had met people like Lucius Malfoy before, handled people like him before, with their affluent decisions in clothing, their high-class tastes and bitter superiority. What she saw in his shadow, however, she couldn't look over. It was there, skulking in his eye, lurking in the twist of his lips, loitering in the way he held himself.

 _She saw Tom Riddle._

Nonetheless, that may well very much be speaking more of herself than Dr Lecter. She was beginning to see Tom everywhere. In her dreams. In her reflection. In the cast of a certain curl or in the dim lighting of a flickering bulb. She couldn't escape it, escape Tom and so, saw him everywhere she looked.

"I read it every year."

Harry said as she lowered the book into her lap, running a mindless thumb over its fractured spine. If Hannibal projected sharp perfection, Harry exuded broken chaos. Her hair was left down today, an unholy mess to tangle at her shoulders. The jumper she wore, a simple knitted dusky pink thing, was unravelling at the cuffs from where she had taken to plucking at the wool. Her timberlands had seen better days and the tapping of her foot was no doubt adding another scuff mark. She wondered if he, Hannibal, too saw the contradictory natures of themselves, or whether he just saw an irritable teen. It would be disappointing if it was the latter, but perhaps, best for all. She didn't need a psychiatrist digging too far into her head. Merlin forbid he should start to see her own cutting and inky demons, or maybe, find Tom all over again.

Hannibal gave a slow nod as he pressed in closer, taking a seat next to Harry. This close, she caught a whiff of him. He smelled like earl grey tea and something woodsy, deep, dark and on the back of her eyelids as she blinked, she caught a glimpse of the forbidden forest.

"A favourite?"

He pointedly looked down to the book in her hands. Harry scoffed and shoved the damned book into her messenger bag. Far away from her.

"No. I bloody hate it."

From the corner of her eye, she thought she may have seen a phantom of a smile, a ghostly apparition of enjoyment, but she couldn't really tell, nor did she care to. She wanted today over and done with. Nothing more, nothing less. Resolutely looking into the crowd around her, eyeing the displays and exhibitions, her tone took on a wisp of wistfulness.

"You know, when I said I would go to therapy, I pictured a sparse room, tacky sunflowers in a garish vase and a chaise longue I would be forced to recline on. I didn't picture an art museum."

Today was Friday and therefor, therapy day. Sometimes she really did wish Tom had of won. She wouldn't have to put up with this bullshit if he did. Originally, Harry was meant to go to his practice, conduct a session and call it quits, but the Dr had put a lovely little stop to her plans. He had rung Alana that morning, at an ungodly hour before Harry could even begin to fake some sort of illness to get out of her commitment and asked for her to meet him at this address for their session. Neither Alana nor Harry recognized the address, and even though Alana had offered to drive her over, likely to make sure she did, in fact, go to her session, Harry had declined all offers of transportation.

If she was going to do this, play at being muggle with a psychiatrist trying to root around in her mind and excavate her secrets, she needed an hour or two to get her own head in the game, to put on her human, healthy mask. If she didn't think it would alert Alana and others of deeper troubled seas within Harry, she wouldn't have bothered to play along. However, Harry didn't need to cast anymore suspicion onto her, her life, her _story_ , if she was going to survive the next few months without outing herself and so, she had to go to therapy.

In the end, she had taken the bus, stopped a few streets, or blocks as the Americans would say, away and took her time in walking. In some shadow of naivety, she had hoped he wouldn't be there when she turned up or he wouldn't show, and she could use the excuse of not knowing the landscape to reason her lateness. Evidently, he had anticipated her slow arrival and conducted his own entrance to mirror hers. _Bastard._ Intelligent, but still, a bastard.

"If I believed that sort of therapy would work for you, I would have arranged it so."

Harry grimaced. She held some scepticism that _any_ form of therapy would work on her. _I'm inside you, Harry._ How do you get over that? How do you move on from a person like Tom? Especially her? He was inside of her… _Had_ been inside of her, a part of her soul, melded to her very being. That wasn't a stain easily removed. She wasn't sure she even _wanted_ it gone. Apart from his wand she had hastily scavenged from a dilapidated Hogwarts straight after the battle, that stain was all she had left of Tom. All the reminder she held that told her it had been real, Tom had been real, she had been _real._ Without that… What was she? Who was she?

"And what sort of therapy is this then? Am I going to see ink blots? Am I meant to tell you that a painting of a ship makes me feel isolated? Or how that shade of red simply pops in that Fresco over there?"

Harry scoffed. Without Tom… She was incomplete. The body only had room for one soul. Just one. When Tom had come storming into her parent's home, slain them and then transferred a part of his soul into hers, he had chipped apart of her own away and replaced it with his foulness. When she had died at the battle, when his Horcrux had been kicked out of her, he had left a hole within her soul. Sometimes, she thought she could feel it, that pit, that void. It _ached._ It hurt so bad. Worse than any Crucio. And what could she do about it? Nothing but grin and bear it. Like always. The fact remained, coming back, surviving the Avada Kedavra again, well, when Harry came back the second time… She was just a little more soulless.

"It is a sort of therapy that, really, is no therapy at all."

Harry glanced at Hannibal. Therapy that is no therapy. A soul that isn't really a soul. A Horcrux that was empty. So was her life, vacant things masquerading as _full._ She looked at Hannibal then, really looked at him, right in the eye. A part of her wanted him to see, to truly see, to stare into her and find her _empty. Pointless. Hallow._ Another part of her wanted to unsheathe her hidden wand and to slice him from groin to Adams apple, just to see if he was as empty as her. The majority of her just wanted this fucking day over with. Yet, Hannibal wasn't finished.

"Unlike Dr. Bloom and others, I do not believe you are as brittle as they do. Are you hurt? Yes. Scarred both mentally and physically? Undoubtedly. Are you fundamentally changed from your experiences? I think there is no possible way you could not be. However, are you as fragile as they believe? As you believe? I do not think so."

Harry couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling free. Fragile? No, she didn't believe she was fragile. She thought she was damaged. Broken. _Wrong._ Many people did. Oh, they didn't say it. They would never say it. But she _saw_ it. In their eyes, between their carefully chosen words. Harry saw it in the continual flow of Hermione's letters, the ones she ignored, always asking how she was feeling, how she was doing. She saw it in Ron's awkward silence, unsure of what to do or say to her. She saw it in the little gift baskets Molly and Arthur Weasley were sending her, looking like funeral offerings. She saw it in Alana's insistence of therapy. Like Tom, she saw it everywhere.

"Well, I hope you like your own company Dr. Lecter. Because I believe you're the only one who has settled yourself into that camp on the debate of my wellbeing."

Yet, it was… Nice? Nice, that someone, anyone, even a stranger as Dr. Lecter was, could see anything other than wrecked goods.

"So, Dr, if this isn't therapy, what is this trip about?"

In answer, Hannibal brushed imaginary lint off his trousers and stood.

"You handled the case with Will Graham very well."

Ah, the mushroom killer. What a… Memorable guy. Creative. Still, he lacked the proper survival skills to keep himself hidden. Especially from someone like her, like Will. Together, they had whittled the pharmacies down and, Harry being side-lined from the actual action, Will and Crawford and a set of swat members had stormed the building during daytime, apprehending the man before he could do any more damage. He had never seen them coming. It felt good, entirely too good, to be a part of the cat and mouse game again, even if she hadn't seen, personally, the mouse get pounced on.

Perhaps it was careless of her, a fair bit arrogant too, thinking she could join in on the fun but keep everyone blind to exactly who and what she was. But she… Couldn't help it. She had her own needs to fill. She _wanted_ it. The chase, the adrenalin, the game of trying to outthink the other man, always unsure of where he or you will have to step to catch them. There was nothing else like it. Nothing. It was the only thing that didn't make her feel numb anymore. Unbeknownst to her, Hannibal was watching.

"However, that is a routine you know very well. I believe your issues lay outside of those kinds of matters. You have trouble socializing, do you not? Alana informs me that you have taken to reading, cooking and hiking, but I do not believe you do this as a form of recreation or enjoyment, but because it is what you think is expected of you. What you think constitutes as _normal_ behaviour. I suspect you have forgotten how to enjoy yourself, how to relax, how to find something pleasurable outside of, let's call it, _work._ "

He was hitting too close to home. Far to close. Harry joined him in standing and, rather angrily, waved her hand around them in a wild gesture.

"And what? I'll become an artist and all my problems will be solved? Well, hot-damn. Someone should have mentioned that to me years ago. If only I knew I could have _papier-mache'd_ Voldemort to death."

This time, he does chuckle. It's a heavy sound, soothing, like a cello. For a split moment, Harry wants to wrap the noise around her, bathe in it, dissect it. It's a new sound. Unique. Then she inhales and the feeling's gone. However, it was something. A feeling. Unbound by force of will or logical reasoning and for a blissful second, one tick of a clock, Harry hadn't felt numb. She wanted the feeling back.

"Art is a spectrum. Subjective and objective. No matter who you are, where you come from, how you have lived, there is a type of art that speaks to you. Art is expression and expression connects. It is a good place to start in the effort to find exploits that you can enjoy."

He began walking, around the edge of the lobby, sticking close to the exhibits, and Harry followed like someone had tied a string of yarn around her intestines, right behind her belly button, and was dragging her forth. This conversation had drifted from slightly amusing antagonism to something dangerous. She could feel the buzzing ringing in her ears. _Connection._ Wasn't that a menacing prospect.

"What if I don't want to connect?"

How deeply she and Tom had connected and now, after his death, she was left in tatters. That's what connecting did to you. Nothing lasted, nothing was a constant, and in the end, someone would be left holding the torn rope with blood on their hands. Hannibal stalled next to an African mask, the wood painted in rich blues and reds. Again, his voice dropped to something base-like, even but sloping, as he inspected the tribal mask with an appreciative eye.

"Everybody wants connection, Hemlock. Everybody wants to feel and understand that there is someone, something, that understands them back. Even their less desirable traits. It's a fundamentality of humanity. Humans do not exist or survive alone, in a void, secluded. We are, after all, pack animals."

Harry shook her head almost violently.

"But, like with most pack mentality, there can be exceptions. The lone wolf. A feral dog. A trapped bumblebee who never gets back to it's nest."

Was it her, or did she sound like she was trying to convince herself more than she was Dr. Lecter? It didn't matter. Connections hurt. As bad as it sounded, as despicable as it made her, losing Tom hurt, burned, shattered her just as much as Sirius's death. Why put herself through anymore than what she already had? In the end, she would lose them, whoever she connected to, she always did and she would be back here… Alone. How pathetic. Best to save herself the trouble and never leave square one.

"And do you see yourself as any of those?"

The question made her frown as she stared up at Hannibal. No. She wasn't the lone wolf, there were no woods for her to prowl. She wasn't a feral dog, she still had some wits about her, as dismal as they might turn out to be and well, she had no nest to try and fly back to. If so, what _did_ she see herself as?

She was a stag, her hooves bent and crooked, her coat matted, and her antlers had been shorn off, just little stubs now, bleeding hills upon her head. Yet, the thing about deer, about stags, was they had herds. They too, like humans, desired company. Where was her herd? Where was her connections and understanding and emotion? Did she deserve that after all she had done? What she was becoming? What _was_ she becoming?

Harry, gazed up into Hannibal's eyes, let that woodsy smell seep into her pores, and just this once, one time, she let herself have just a moment of clarity and openness. For the first time in months, perhaps her whole life, she spoke the truth. _Her_ truth.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm a character in a story. You know those long-winded ones, of heroes and villains, the ones you read as a child? Only, the author stopped writing about me, the _real_ me. They airbrushed it. They went and smoothed my rough edges. They took away my shadow. They painted a smile on my face and made me into some sort of Peter Pan knockoff. They made my story palatable for the innocent little children and erased me. Sometimes I like to think about the ending they gave me."

Hannibal's head cocked to the side.

"And what would that happy ending be?"

Harry smiled, but she knew, there really wasn't anything real there. That too had been written over.

"Knowing authors and kids, most likely me, older, wiser, stronger for fighting the good fight. There'd be a dramatic epilogue that has a huge time skip. I'd be standing at a train station, sending my own kids off to the very same school I went to. They would be best friends with my friend's children. The cycle would begin again. All would be well and good in the world. It's horrible, isn't it? The lies we tell ourselves, tell our children."

She could picture it all so clearly…

"What are those lies?"

And she saw all the horrid lies like maggots on a corpse. Eating and eating and eating.

"That there are such things as happy endings."

Harry slammed her guard back up, swiftly turned away from Hannibal to look at the crowd once more and tried to swallow down the bile rising steadily in her throat. Just because you wanted something, it didn't mean you always got it. Sometimes the stag died alone. There was nothing to be done about it. Harry should know that by now. A hand, welcomingly heavy, large, gentle but almost exceedingly warm, landed on her shoulder.

"Like art, a happy ending is subjective. What I see as a happy conclusion, no doubt, would be different to yours. Others projecting their wishes for us, their ending to our stories, can make us uncomfortable. It is only natural. However, disconnecting from people, instigating a seclusion, relying on being a lone wolf, will not stop that projection from taking place. Sometimes, Hemlock, against others well meaning interference and intersection into our lives, we must find our _own_ ending. In the chaos that is the universe, if we are to truly thrive in life and come to our ending, we must form our own connections to objects, subjects, _people_ , that can offer us understanding. True understanding."

Harry guffawed.

"Are you trying to subtly tell me to, what? _Not_ try and please Alana? To fight what she's trying to project onto me? To go rogue and to just do what I want when I want? That doesn't seem very Therapeutic."

From over her shoulder, Harry looked at the tall doctor. The corner of his lips had pulled down slightly, just a fraction, as if he was contemplating what she had said. Harry knew better. He was a smart man, dangerously smart, he knew exactly what he wanted to say as soon as she finished speaking. This little display was only for her supposed comfort.

"This, as we have established, is not really therapy. However, that is not entirely what I am saying, either. I am advising you to look deep within yourself and find exactly what it is that you enjoy and to connect to it, even if that is against the wishes of Alana, me, your friends. Your life is your own now, Hemlock… Perhaps it is time for you to start living it for yourself. Take the pen back from the author and write your own story."

Her life had never really been her own. It had always belonged to someone else. Albus. Tom. Aunt Petunia. Her parents ghosts. The idea that suddenly it was hers, it… Terrified her. What was she meant to do with it? What did real free will taste like? If let off her chain and collar, would she become as rabid as Tom? Was that really a bad thing? What did anything mean anymore? Hunting serial killers was easier than this.

"Do I sound like a moron if I say I don't know quite how to do that?"

Hannibal patted her back before his hand fell away like the autumn leaf on an oak tree.

"Not at all. We all begin somewhere. If there was one thing you could try tomorrow, what would it be?"

 _Resurrection…_

Harry shuddered and shoved that thought, that maggot, far back into her mind, into the dank depths it had wiggled free from. That wasn't her talking. That was just Tom's stain. Differentiate and disassociate. Lock it back and lock it down. It couldn't reach her. Tom couldn't reach her. She was a boat lost at sea, slowly rocking, surrounded by fog, hidden. Safe. Tom couldn't find her there. No one could. She just couldn't look at the water, couldn't see the shadows, the silhouettes of her fallen people, Remus, Sirius, Tonks, Dobby, Fred, Snape, Moody, Mum, Dad, everyone, floating by… No. Don't look. Hidden. Safe. The river Styx wasn't ready for her yet.

"I read phantom of the opera the other day. I think I'd like to go to that. An opera, that is. It seemed… Peaceful."

That's right. That's good. Something a muggle would say. Pretending was just second nature to Harry now. A default switch. Even lost in her own thoughts, the images her mind threw at her, her mask never slipped. She didn't know whether to be thankful of the fact or petrified of it. It didn't matter. After all, the numbness would take those emotions too before she could even begin to feel them.

"Then, in our next session, we will visit an opera."

Hannibal was walking again, gliding, ghosting along from one painting to a sculpture to a carving. None of them held Harry's eye for long. The painting didn't have enough crimson in it, too cold, too lifeless. Life was red. Life was blood. The sculpture of a reclining woman seemed to be too atomically perfect, so much so, all Harry wanted to do was lift it high above her head and swing it down upon the granite flooring, to smash it, just to see a broken limb or a cracked face. The carving was too cheerful, a man and a child holding hands, the older leading the younger. Merlin, she would burn that one if she got her hands on it.

Tempering off the snarl that wanted to blossom on her face at witnessing such sickly-sweet visages, Harry turned her attention to the Dr himself. His tie and pocket swatch were red silk, patterned with darker swirls of ruby. While still having those slicing features, the man wasn't perfectly symmetrical. The left side of his top lip was slighter, ever so, thicker than the right, giving him an almost, inching, lopsided smile. Thankfully, not once, had he forced a cheerful smile on his face, not even, in a poorly thought out effort, to gain Harry's compliance. Yes, he was far more aesthetically interesting to look at than these mimicries of a glazed over, happy world the artists obviously wished existed.

"You seem quite sure that there will be another session. I only agreed to one."

Harry taunted. She had walked into this building with one goal in mind. To get it over with and turn her back on the whole ordeal. Not only because she hated speaking about herself, loathed it really, but because it was the safest course of action. It would be easier to get through the next few months undetected without someone trying to get into her head or watching her every move. However…

"Yes, to get Alana off your back, if I'm not mistaken by your reaction at the time. Nonetheless, I believe you did promise to further sessions if you felt comfortable enough."

Wouldn't it course more suspicion if Harry didn't comply with Alana's almost stubborn need to see Harry talking to someone about, well, her poor little orphan life? If Alana saw her in therapy, if Crawford saw it too, her supposedly working over her so called trauma, Alana's little lighthouse gaze would trail away from her and finally, Harry would be left well enough alone. Plus, in therapy, Jack Crawford would be more likely to call upon her services again, without the resistance from Alana hindering him. Momentary discomfort for a peaceful ending and another chance at getting into the great game seemed to be worth the risk, to Harry, at least. Still, whether that person to act as her scape goat was Dr. Lecter of all people was yet to be seen.

"Whose to say I'm feeling comfortable?"

Harry questioned as she tried to mutely scan Hannibal while his back was to her and facing another sculpture. For while he had, no doubt, been dismantling her both physically and mentally, Harry had been conducting her own conclusions. All she got was contradictions. His voice was almost continually low and calming, and yet, he chose his words as carefully as one would choose a chess piece to sacrifice. He knew exactly what to say and not say to get the reaction or subservience he wanted, and yet, he never ordered a single thing.

While being exemplarily dressed, in an outfit perfect for his profession, Harry had picked up on his gait. He kept his back straight, shoulders squared, right foot a smidgeon surer than his left, always leading and his knees and elbows remained loose. He wasn't unaccustomed to physical fighting, then. Antonin Dolohov had walked with the same surety and posture, and that wizard was as lethal with a wand as without it. Now… Why would a plain ol' psychiatrist walk like a kick boxer?

Furthermore, why was he so interested in her? He seemed amicable enough with Alana, from the brief interaction Harry had witnessed between the two in Crawford's office a few days prior, for this to, perhaps, be in a favour for the older woman, but for some reason, a little stone in Harry's gut that was still rolling, that explanation didn't quite fit. Professional curiosity? Even in muggle terms, she had led an interesting life, this could all be him trying to add another scientific achievement to his career. Then why take her to a museum and not question a single bloody thing about any of the things she had lived through? He had not even hinted to a single experience Harry had survived. No. Something was going on here… But what?

Contradictions and layers. Dr. Lecter was like Goblin goulash. A sort of stew, an odd blend of things that didn't work together, marsh mellowed turnips and frog stuffed pineapple and vinegar gravy with minted oranges, dusted with gingerbread and cheese crumbs, all thrown into one giant, blackened pot that somehow, some-fucking-way, _worked._ It was one of her favourite dishes, and also one of the most bewildering to eat. Hannibal began to turn to face her, finished inspecting the art, as Harry forced her gaze to dart to the exhibit closest to herself.

"I doubt you have told anyone else anything you have said to me. That denotes a sense of comfort, does it not?"

She'd been had, but also, he had outed himself, and in turn, been got simultaneously. What had been the theme of their discussion? Connection. He hadn't been trying to get her to form connections to artwork, not really, not even to Alana.

"And comfort equates to some form of connection. Connections you're trying to get me to make. You're good doctor, real good, I'll give you that. However, if you wanted to be my friend, you could have simply asked."

And been equally fast denied. However, he had known that, hadn't he? That was the point. All this, the museum, the friendly banter, it was to pique her interest. She almost wanted to give the man a round of applause. Of course, if it hadn't been her he was playing with. She didn't do well being on the chessboard, not since Albus Dumbledore. Hannibal made his way over to her.

"Not quite as good as I originally believed if you've saw through it already. On the subject of connecting, you worked well with Will Graham."

That was the second time Hannibal Lecter had brought Will Graham up, and Harry didn't have a clue what he expected, or wanted, her to say on the matter. In fact, she didn't think she could describe Will or what happened back in Crawford's office at all. She didn't think she wanted to even acknowledge it. It had all been so very… Messy. Involuntarily. Just like this therapy session, Harry had had the get in, do your thing, get out mindset about her that day. Then she met Will.

He was like her, she knew that, but so utterly different at the same time. He empathized with them, the people he pictured, became their soul. Harry could simply think how they thought, know what they would do. She became their mind channelling the soul, directing it. Put the two together in the same room and it felt like someone had spelled a lumos maxima right in her brain and set it off.

Will was speaking and then she was and then he was until all the words got muddled and Harry was no longer sure who was doing or saying what. For just a breath, she was the sky, Will had been the earth and there had been a great tree wrapped in a tornado, creativity, light, emotion and thought and the branches, like spindly arms, had connected them both. And still, that didn't even begin to describe accurately how it felt to be bouncing off Will, feeding one another, swirling. It had been different than Tom. Tom had invaded and took. Conquered. Seized. Possessed. She had lost herself to Tom. With Will Graham, something else had happened. She had shed her skin, her bones and muscle and for a single heartbeat, she had become something _more._ Not less. There were no words that could explain it. Never fully. Instead of pointlessly trying, Harry cocked a brow and fell back on sarcasm.

"Is he coming to the opera with us, or is that simply my privilege?"

Hannibal glanced down to his wrist watch.

"Yours alone, I'm afraid. However, I am meeting up with him in an hours' time for lunch at the hospital, I thought you would like to come along. There will be a young woman there, one I would like you to meet. She has had a rough time lately, and I believe you could help. I would, of course, inform Alana beforehand, if you agree?"

Finally, something to get her out of her own head and focused onto something else. _This_ is what she needed.

"What's her name?"

Hannibal didn't miss a beat.

"Abigail Hobbs."

Well, look-y here. Harry had overheard Alana on the phone to Crawford just that morning, whispering about an Abigail Hobbs and something called the Minnesota Shrike. A quick search on the muggle computer her aunt had, while the woman was disposed in the shower, answered most questions Harry had. The serial killer's daughter, who had been in a coma up until that morning, had been _saved_ by Will Graham of all people. Of course, Harry didn't know how much she could believe from a site called _tattle-tale crime_ , she had her own experiences from misrepresentation from a media source, but still, the information presented currently was temptingly inquisitive.

While the happenings of the serial Killer was curious enough, it was the stories propagating from it that had Harry's doggish ears perking up. A young girl, trapped in her demented house with an insane father, totally unaware of her dearest daddy's hobbies, one day finds herself at the edge of his knife only to be rescued by the FBI just in the nick of time. It felt like a page torn right out of one of those tacky crime novels mostly found in discount stores. Too perfect. Too fairy tale. _There were no happy endings._ Just like the sculpture of the reclining woman and the carving of the man and child and the painting with no red, Harry wanted to rip that narrative apart.

"I have nothing better to do."

Harry found herself saying jovially. Really, though, wasn't that the sad truth? She had nothing better to do. The girl who had saved the wizarding world from destruction was left with only small pass-times to stop herself from doing something that would have Tom smiling down at her for. Merlin, she made herself sick. There was no hint, no ghost or phantom to confuse her or make her question what she saw. Hannibal _did_ smile at her.

"I will inform Alana and then we shall leave. However, before we go, have you seen anything that has piqued your interest?"

Harry didn't think much as she wandered backwards, nodding towards an exhibit. In truth, it was an ugly thing. Grotesque some would say. Constructed from jarring pieces of spray-painted metal and sawn-off pipes, the thing was sharp and layered, a lot like the Dr with her, actually. Up close and personal to it, you couldn't see what it made, you missed the bigger picture, you could only see the serrated edges and black paint. The smile on Hannibal's face only grew.

"Ah, Assemblage. An artistic form or medium usually created on a defined substrate that consists of three-dimensional elements projecting out of or from the substrate. An interesting choice. It shows an inclination towards engineering and architecture. I have some books on those subjects you might enjoy?"

Harry nodded, thankful for any new reading material seen as that, reading, was all she was doing lately. She could hardly complain. If she was reading, she wasn't sleeping and if she wasn't sleeping, Tom's stain couldn't reach her. Additionally, there could be no possible way for Hannibal to know truly, why she liked the thing. Up close, it was just a junk-pile, take a few steps away and there it was. A black dog howling. The grim. Her Sirius renditioned in scrap metal. Somehow, it fitted his memory.

"It looks like a dog. I like dogs."

That big, warm hand was back on her shoulder as Hannibal led her towards the exit of the museum. However, Harry's eyes trailed towards the polished flooring. With the windows to their back, she could see their shadows. It looked like that minimalistic carving she disliked, of the man leading the child, but this one was… Darker. The uncertain lines of the shadows made it seem grave. The translucent shading gave it an air of uncertainty rather than optimism. The elongated forms made it seem just a bit more alien, dangerous. She preferred this version. It felt more _real_.

"I advise you to talk to Will about that kindred taste."

* * *

 **WOO OR BOO?**

All I have to say on this chapter is that Hannibal is a right foul bastard to get right! The amount of times I've re-wrote and tweaked his lines and honestly, I'm still hesitant about them. For some reason, Harry gave me a bit of a runabout too. But, I'm over-all glad with this chapter and don't really want to say much as there are hints a plenty in this chapter about what's coming and I really don't want to start spoiling my own fic lol.

 **ONCE AGAIN, A MASSIVE THANK YOU TO EVERYONE!** Silent readers, followers, favourite-ers, reviewers, if I could, I would all give you a hug, but I'm afraid my thanks will have to survise.

 _ **As always, please drop a review if you have a moment, they keep the muses chattering.**_


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FOUR: PUMPKIN JUICE PART ONE:**

* * *

 **Freddie Lound's P.O.V**

"Please, stop! Don't do this!"

Freddie Lounds's heart thundered in her chest, more rapid than even her skittering steps. The twigs and sharp pebbles dug into the soft skin of her knees as she stumbled up the drive-way, falling, crashing, wincing as the hand in her hair wound tighter, heaving her up. The hand twisted viciously, snapping her head back and Freddie let out a short, keen cry of pain as her scalp thrummed at the pressure. _Her_ face loomed out of the dark night around them, half aflame by the orange porch-light. But nothing, nought, could outshine those unnatural green eyes.

"If you don't stop struggling, I'm going to remove a limb. Do you understand?"

Hemlock Potter looked so calm, her voice mildly chiding like a mother speaking to her babe and Freddie couldn't put the young woman she had met in that hospital room to the same person who had lured her here, dragged her through the woods, threatened bodily mutilation as if telling her if she didn't eat her greens, it was time out. Before Freddie could plead some more, ask, beg, damn, even snivel, the shorter, younger woman was dragging her towards the old Hobbs's residence front door. Just as they landed on the porch, Freddie nearly losing balance once more, the front door swung open and Freddie nearly cried from relief.

"Abigail! Oh, Abigail! Help, call the police!... Abigail?"

The brunette stood there, watching, leaning against the door, and it was then that Freddie saw it. The blood. On her shirt. On her hands, up Abigail's arms. Hemlock didn't hesitate, releasing her hold on Freddie's hair, she locked her fingers into the collar of her shirt before Freddie could bolt and was shoving her through the door, down the hall way. Behind her, Freddie could hear Abigail follow and her soft, slightly tremulous voice echoed after them, playing catch up to Hemlocks swift march.

"What are you going to do to her?"

Once again, Freddie cried out as Hemlock came to a doorway and booted her into the room. Freddie fell, her knees flaring in pain, her elbows too as her head bounced off the hardwood flooring. The world swam, so many colours, swirling, dancing and Freddie couldn't find her footing as she scrambled on the floor like a fish. Something wet and thick was making her lose any grip she could form. When the world stopped spinning, Freddie came face to face with reality. The wetness… It was a puddle of cooling blood.

Nicholas Boyle, the brother to the murdered girl, the man Freddie herself had given this exact address to, laid staring blankly at her, stomach split open like a ripe pumpkin. Freddie cried out, tried to push away, but a boot, Hemlock's, planted itself onto her back and stamped her onto the floor like a butterfly pinned to a collector's parchment paper.

"Nothing she will remember. Now, be quiet. I have to concentrate. The last thing we need right now is for me to botch her memories and leave her a babbling mess that believes she's a goat."

Botch her memories? What was she going to do? What was happening? A story… All Freddie wanted was a story, she never intended for herself to be a part of it, though. With tears blossoming in her eyes, Freddie turned her neck as far as it could and stared up at the woman… Child really, that was keeping her still and trapped.

"You won't get away with this."

Hemlock smiled at her, as she reached up and behind her head, towards her bun and slowly pulled free the long, white stick she had holding her hair up. Her curls flopped down, all tangles and rebellion, as she aimed the tip of the wooden stick right at Freddie's face. It wasn't a knife. It wasn't a gun. Just a stick. A stick! And still, something lurched in Freddie's gut, something screamed in the back of her mind and her blood ran cold. As cold and tauntingly biting as Hemlock's voice had become.

"No… Actually, it will be _you_ who won't get away with this. Look at what you did Freddie… Look at who you killed… You slit him from naval to sternum…"

Freddie's breathing became erratic, her fingers clawing into the wood and the boot pressed down harder as Hemlock dropped to her haunches to jab the stick into her temple. The wood felt frigid, abnormally so.

"I didn't do anything! I-"

The tip of the stick trailed downwards, curving across Freddie's cheekbone and jawline to tickle at the underneath of her chin before it was savagely butting in, forcing Freddie to tilt her head back unless she wanted the stick to tear into the soft skin there. Not once did Hemlock's gaze ever leave Freddie's own.

"Oh, didn't you? You're a reporter, aren't you? You like good stories. Well, Miss Lounds, you're about to become a headline yourself. How does _Victims grieving brother slain in struggle with news reporter_ sound? You did, after all, lead him here."

Freddie's body began to tremble, a tear fell and her mind was jumbled. Run. She needed to get away. Crazy. They were all crazy.

"I-I-… I didn't kill him! I didn't do this! No one will believe you!"

Hemlock chuckled and Freddie wanted to cry as the stick went back to pressing into her temple, grinding.

"They won't have to believe me. They'll believe _you_ when you confess _._ "

No. It wouldn't end like this. It couldn't. Frantically, Freddie's eyes darted around the room looking for anything, anyone to help. They landed on a shadow in the very corner of the living room, a lonely watcher standing guard. Observing. Freddie went to shout, to ask for help, but all her words and pleas died on her tongue as Dr Hannibal Lecter simply cocked his head and smiled. His face, that lopsided grin, those dark eyes, were the last thing Freddie saw before Hemlock was whispering in her ear and the world burst to black.

"Imperio."

 _72 hours ago…_

* * *

 **Alana's P.O.V**

This was _wrong._ That was the underlying feeling pinning most of Alana Blooms thoughts as she trailed her niece, Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter through the winding hospital hallways. She had taken her niece in, tried to make a home, to get her away from the bloodshed, murderers and darker shades of life. For the most part, she had succeeded, and yet… And yet, like mould, it had a way of creeping back towards Hemlock and latching itself to her.

Wearily, during Hannibal's rather short call informing her that Hemlock would be staying with him for a little while longer, followed by a request to take her along to visit Abigail Hobbs of all people, Alana had given her hesitant acceptance. With the condition of her presence, of course. Alana's reluctant submission to allowing Hemlock to visit Abigail had nothing to do with the girl herself. Alana had met Abigail previously, and while viewing the young woman as traumatized, what with her own horrid experiences, it wasn't Abigail's overall presence that caused much concern for Alana. It was Hemlocks possible reaction to her that made Alana tentative to agree in the first place.

Abigail Hobbs had recently been in a very distressing situation, her father had been a serial killer, and subsequently, she had survived an attack herself. Hemlock Potter had also recently survived such an encounter herself, and in this fragile state of healing, any reminders of her own experiences could further trauma rather then easing it. Alana had taken her niece in to protect her, to help her heal, not to remind her of her own ghosts and to further any horrific memories she housed. Still, despite her reservations, after a rather consoling talk from Hannibal on how Hemlock's therapy session had gone, as close as doctor confidentiality could limit Alana to know, the psychiatrist had finally relinquished, with the amendment of her participation, naturally.

And so, here they were, about to enter Abigail Hobbs's private quarters in their little band of misfits. Unfortunately, as they got closer, Alana realised just how thin these hospital walls proved to be as two contending voices reached not only her ears, but Hannibal's, Hemlock's and more importantly, Will's.

" _How did they catch him?"_

" _A man called Will Graham, works for the FBI but isn't the FBI. He catches insane men because he can think like them."_

Alana winced quite heavily as Will shuffled to the very front of their group and twisted the door handle, jostling the door open with an arching sweep. It was to no one's surprise, but to perhaps Hemlock's, to see Freddie Lounds lurching over Abigail's bed like a vulture. Not six hours after awakening from her coma and here Freddie was, their most notorious news reporter, haggling for her next headline. Slowly, she turned around, bright red hair flashing in the unattractive fluorescent lighting, eyeing Will Graham like a child would eye a needle.

"Because he is insane."

Will held onto his composure rather well, given the circumstances, as he and Hannibal strolled in, Alana not far behind as Hemlock stayed at their rear, simply watching. He even managed to keep his voice light and polite, something Alana didn't think she could accomplish in his shoes.

"Will you excuse us please."

However, there was no question in his voice, no hesitance, just a hardly concealed order. Freddie, in retaliation, stood up but stayed close to Abigail's bedside. Trying to ignore the infuriating woman, Will bypassed her and turned his attention to the brunette laying in bed, a thick gauze taped to her neck, pale and wide-eyed at the abrupt interruption, or, perhaps, at being caught speaking to a woman like Freddie Lounds.

"I'm special agent Will Graham."

Nonetheless, Freddie was not finished, not when she could get another knife in and with, in Alana's opinion, a rather smug smile on her lips, spoke over her shoulder to a quizzical Abigail.

"By special agent, he means not really an agent. He didn't get passed the screening process… _Too unstable._ "

Will blinked and his eyes dropped to the polished flooring as Alana finally went to intercede on his behalf, only to be beaten to the punchline by Hannibal.

"I really must insist you leave the room."

Knowing her time was short, Freddie delved a hand into her handbag, procured a small, rectangular piece of card, a business card, she went to give it to Abigail.

"If you want to talk-"

Will lurched, snatched the card from her hand before Abigail could move and rather harshly filched it into his blazers inner pocket. Freddie's smile dropped. Breathing in roughly, Freddie held her ground before she thought better of it and went to leave. The smack of palm meeting wood rang out and Alana startled at the noise.

At the doorway, Hemlock had slithered partially into the room, and as Freddie had went to leave, had shot her arm out to block the older woman. For a moment, all Hemlock did was stare at Freddie. For a moment, Alana didn't breathe. For a moment… Harry's face _terrified_ her. It was a dark thing, eyes sleeked and gleaming, hooded, features still and calm but cold, like carven alabaster. Then it was gone and Hemlock was smiling, dimples and all, her voice so pleasantly jovial, it was almost infectiously happy.

"Karma, Miss Lounds, finds us all. Remember that."

Then Hemlock's arm dropped and Freddie couldn't have been more in a rush to leave the room if she tried. Taking one last step into the room, Hemlock kicked the door closed behind her but stayed close, away, an outsider looking at the ceiling. Before Alana could question whether Hemlock was feeling okay, Will was taking his glasses off, a nervous tick of his, as he addressed Abigail and Alana was forced to drop the topic until later. Perhaps when they were in private.

"Abigail, this is Dr Lecter. Do you remember us?"

Abigail swallowed, her Adams apple bobbing profusely as she looked around at them, giving a quick inquisitive glance to Hemlock that she soon enough glided over, before settling those pale eyes of hers back onto Will, nodding.

"I remember you."

Abigail's jaw twitched a little, she blinked, and then she hit the hammer on the head with four words.

"You killed my dad."

Will's gaze dropped once more and even from behind him, Alana could see the minute buzz of repressed feelings shaking his shoulders just so. What was there to say to that? Denial? There was no denial. Justification? It would only make Abigail's undercurrent of anger worse. Just as silence began to fall upon them like a blanket of frigid snow, Hemlock's voice piped up from the doorway.

"You _should_ be thankful."

Four sets of eyes snapped towards her as Alana spluttered and tried to intervene. She _knew_ this was a bad idea. She should have never agreed. It was too early, for Hemlock _and_ Abigail.

"Harry-"

Hemlock kicked away from the door, almost prowling towards Abigail's bed, completely overlooking Alana, Hannibal and Will.

"You obviously know enough about your father, given the little conversation we walked in on. In the end, he would have killed you. That's what it was all coming to, your death."

Abigail heckled, pushing herself further up and into her pillows.

"I know what my father did. I know what he wanted to do. But he was still _my_ father."

Hemlock's answering chuckle sent shivers down Alana's spine, freezing her where she stood.

"And that's why you should be thankful it was someone else and not you who ended it. Tell me, if it had been just you and your father, when he had you pinned, when he went to slice your throat, you would have hit back, wouldn't you? That's survival. The urge to live is written into every single one of use. In the end, it would have been you or him left standing. Trust me, you don't want his blood on your hands."

Alana lost her own grip on any sort of composure.

"Hemlock!"

A mistake. This had all been a horrible, horrible mistake on her part. Next time, she would listen to her gut when it came to matters concerning her niece. Leave. She and Hemlock needed to leave now. Her heels clacked on the flooring as Alana moved forward, hand reaching, about to grab Hemlock by the sleeve, but another hand joined the fray. Glancing to her side, she was met with Hannibal as he slowly shook his head in the negative. What the hell was he thinking? Nonetheless, this little interlude gave Abigail enough time to fluster and grow red-cheeked as she indignantly shot back at Hemlock.

"How old are you? Twelve? What do you even know about anything? You have no idea."

Alana pulled her arm free, frowning deeply as she went to take another step towards Hemlock, to stop this madness before her niece could answer in anger and escalate this whole ordeal. Yet, again, Hemlock surprised her. Instead of growing flushed herself, Hemlock nodded, leisurely strolled to the very edge of Abigail's bed and sat down at the foot, perching like a raven. When she spoke, there was no anger in her voice, no winter coldness, no indignation or wounded ego. Just an odd sense of… Fondness. A nostalgia that seemed to old for a young woman like herself to have.

"There was a boy once. His name was Tom Riddle. You could say he was like a father to me. He taught me nearly everything I know. How to survive. How to live. How to hunt. He taught me a lot more than my real father ever did. Like me, he was an orphan, left alone, abused, with nothing but his name. People even said I look like him."

 _Tom Riddle._ This wasn't the first time Alana had heard this strangers name, and she doubted it would be the last. Of course, Hemlock had proven to be a very… Reclusive individual, especially when it came to matters close to herself. Not once had Hemlock ever given more than she needed to. When questioned, no matter how lightly, on subjects or things concerning her past, she was liable to give short, clipped answers. Nothing more.

Still, she slipped sometimes, allowed Alana a minuscule peep into her little world. It was never much of a glance, and normally, it pertained to the very man at hand. _Where did you learn to cook like this Harry? Tom knew how to cook. Oh, so you like jogging? Have you always liked it? Tom taught me to run from a young age. What colour scarf should I wear today, do you think? Red, purple, blue- Green… Tom liked the colour green and I'm pretty fond of it myself._

There had always been a hint, just a whiff, of intimate familiarity and endearment to Hemlock's inflection when she spoke about the man, leading Alana to come to the conclusion that, not being a teacher, Tom had been a guardian of hers, at some time, in some way. Perhaps a kindly neighbour of Petunia's and Vernon's who had taken Hemlock under wing when Alana, herself, had been distastefully ignorant of her very life. Hemlock even went as far as carrying a souvenir of his, a gift, that stick, in her hair. Still, confusion edged with a condensing sort of dread slinked into Alana's gut at the mention of him, especially being brought up in this context, to someone like Abigail.

"My parents were murdered when I was a year old. I was nearly killed too. They were slain in their own home by a rather… Inventive and determined psychopath called Voldemort. Now he… He was an insane fucker. He got it into his head that me, a year-old baby, would one day kill him, and death, well, that was the one fear Voldemort had. So, he couldn't have that. He thought he would jump the gun before the gun fired and kill me first. Things went wrong, he obviously failed, but my parents paid the price that night and I was left on my aunt and uncle's doorstep with only this scar as a little memento. Alone, abused, with only _my_ name. Just. Like. Tom."

To emphasize her point, Hemlock pushed back a few fallen onyx curls to show her unique scar to a doe-eyed Abigail. It was a jagged thing, thick, angry, splintering down her forehead like a lightning bolt, nearly splitting one of her thick, arching brows in two. Really, Alana should step in. She knew that. She should step in and put a stop to this, perhaps take Hemlock to a private place, just the two of them, and talk this out… Whatever _this_ was. And yet, she didn't. This was the first time Harry had opened up fully. Truly. Taking her away now could lead to her slamming that iron gate back down, cementing it closed and Alana… Alana wanted to know. She needed to hear this.

"Voldemort wasn't finished there, though, oh, no. When I was eleven, he impersonated one of my school teachers, lured me into a basement, and then proceeded to try and bash my brains in with a stone. Every god-damned year, he would attack. When I was twelve, he tried snakes and poison, even going as far as trying to kill a friend of mine, just to show me he could."

But something was coming, she could feel it, like a Tsunami, the tremors just beginning to shake the ground she stood on and she was trapped. Trapped in a pit of trepidation and nerve-lighting anticipation. She should put a stop to this before the wave crashed. She needed to put a stop to this. Why wasn't she putting a stop to this?

"Fourteen: he abducted me and a friend from school, a kind boy, a lovely, friendly boy call Cedric Diggory. You know the kinds of people who won't hurt a fly? Who cry when they see an injured squirrel? That was good ol' Cedric. That time, Voldemort pinned me to a gravestone, his own gravestone from where he faked his death after killing my parents, and then slit my wrist and killed Cedric without batting an eye. I escaped with just plain luck. I had to carry Cedric's body back to his father, bleeding, half dead myself. I had to drop that body right at his father's distraught feet and look the man in the eye and now he's son was dead because he was standing next to me on the wrong bloody day."

Bile, hot, dense, bubbled up and seared Alana's throat as Hemlock's words painted a picture she would never, _never_ , be able to scrub from her mind. Her niece… Her fourteen-year-old niece, alone, bleeding, heaving a corps-… It was to much and no matter how hard Alana fought to move, she simply couldn't. She was held transfixed, horrified and blinded, by the tapestry Harry was stitching too calmly.

"Fifteen: the government actually started to try and protect me, but it was too little too late. Voldemort and his followers had wormed their way into nearly every institution. He killed my godfather that year. He killed Sirius, my only remaining family, right in front of me. One minute, he was there, and I was reaching… Screaming and reaching and then… In a flash… He was gone. Dead. Oh… You should have heard how Bellatrix, Voldemort's most devout follower, cackled as he died and I cried."

Alana was going to be sick.

"Everyone around me started dying after that. Innocent people, MI5 agents, everyone. But he never could finish me off. That _angered_ him. So, I was forced on the run. For months, I lived in a tent, hopping from one woods to another. Always moving. Always hungry. Always alone. Always angry and still, he couldn't catch me. So, he decided to take the one safe place I had left, the one place not tarnished by death or nightmares… My old school. He and his followers attacked, children… Children died, countless people, murdered… But I saw my chance and I faced him. He killed me then. I was dead for a good twenty minutes and yet, my little heart just wouldn't give up. Against the odds, It started beating again and Voldemort would not have another chance to take anyone else, to try and kill me. _I killed him._ You should have seen the look of surprise on his face when I sprang back to life. A sixteen-year-old girl, a supposedly dead girl, a child he believed would kill him and so, in trying to stop her from doing so, he created the very monster he so feared. I had beaten the one thing that terrified him. _Death._ I hated Voldemort. I loathed him. I burnt his body and I watched the ash fly away in the wind. I have never been as relieved and victorious as I was then. _"_

It was one thing reading a file, a clinical, detached file, no matter how detailed it was, and to hear a person, her own flesh and blood, recount the tale in bits of fractured pieces. Somehow, it made it real. Something wet fell onto her cheek, sliding down to the tip of her chin and Alana belatedly realised she was crying. And still… She did nothing to stop this. Abigail shook her head, wincing when her neck bending tightened her wound.

"I don't understand. My father wasn't anything like that."

Hemlock chuckled and cocked her head.

"But he was like Tom Riddle, wasn't he? Tom was a different story. He was charming. Polite. He smiled and laughed and played games. _Everybody loved Tom._ He was there for me when no one else was. He taught me lessons on life no one was willing to teach me. He grew up, scared, alone, hurt, like I did. When I was twelve, we wrote letters to each other. I stopped writing back that year when I discovered-… But he kept sending those letters, kept… _Talking_ to me."

The tsunami was shadowing them now, basting them in inky black, haunting them. Yet, Hemlock carried on.

"You see, that's how it goes. That's how they get into your head. That's the worst fucking part of all this, of everything. When everyone was against me, Tom was there. He became a part of me. He _was_ a part of me. Tom was more of a father than my real one ever was. When someone says dad or father, I don't see James Potter, I see _him._ "

Hemlock leant forward, invading Abigail's space, pressing, annexing, pervading.

"Your dad taught you how to hunt, didn't he? He taught you how to survive when times seemed dim? He made you laugh when you thought you couldn't laugh? He made you smile when you wanted to cry? _He understood you._ He was your friend, your grounding, your teacher and your family. He, your father, in his own twisted, sick way, loved you, didn't he? _Didn't he_?"

Abigail spluttered, breath catching in her throat and still, Alana did nothing.

"Yes. Voldemort killed Tom Riddle, didn't he?"

The wave crashed against them and up became down, foot became hand and breath was no where to be found. Not for Alana.

"No… I killed Tom Riddle. I burnt his body and I watched as my own father's ashes fluttered away in the wind… I have never been as heartbroken… As defeated and dead, as I was then. Funny, how things can turn sour so quickly, how victories can become defeats in a blink of an eye."

Finally, Alana's voice came to her, nothing but a broken thing, all twisted sinew and shattered bone with matted feathers.

"Harry?"

No. No. No, no, no, no, no! She wasn't… Hemlock isn't… Alana had it wrong. She had to. Hemlock didn't even glance her way, still hooked on Abigail and her slowly brightening eyes.

"You see, don't you?"

Abigail's next words felt like a punch to Alana's already soiled guts and intestines.

"Tom Riddle _was_ Voldemort. They were the same person."

Harry slipped from the bed, cramming her hands into her jean pockets, but Alana saw. She saw them shake and spasm, she saw the slight wetness to Hemlock's eyes, she saw and heard the ragged breath quake through her as she nodded.

"Yes. So, trust me when I say you should be thankful someone else ended it before you had to. I didn't have a Will Graham to step in for me and now… Now I have Tom's blood on my hands."

That was it. That was the reason Hemlock had opened up in the first place, bared her sins, her wounds, her aching heart. She saw herself in Abigail. She saw herself, fresh from the fight from Voldemo-… From Tom Riddle. She saw what could have been for her. She saw the what-ifs, the could haves and the should have been's and she knew how much the other girl was hurting and in the only way she could, perhaps in the only way she knew how, by pointing out how much worse it could have been, she was trying to ease Abigail's pain.

The ice holding her still, the dread sticking her feet to the floor, melted away and Alana was in movement, sweeping towards her niece.

"Oh… Harry."

Hemlock jerked away, face turned towards the wall, hidden as she stormed for the door, yanking it open.

"I need air."

The door slammed shut and Alana's heart shattered.

* * *

 **Will's P.O.V**

Will Graham was the next one out of the hospital an hour later, after taking Abigail for a quick walk and chat with Dr. Lecter around a little conservatory. After Hemlock's rather open and quite frankly, heartrending and melancholic conversation with Abigail, the girl had opened up to Dr. Lecter and Will, even wanting to spend more time with Hemlock, though, Alana had politely put that off by saying Hemlock needed some time for herself. In light of the situation, things had gone rather well, given what rather depressing beginnings they all had. It didn't take Will long to spot Hemlock once he stepped outside, given that she wasn't hiding very well, or hiding at all, really. She was sitting on a low wall, back to him, looking up at the dreary, clouded sky. He made his way over.

"Alana is just talking to Hannibal, she should be out soon."

At his cautious but friendly voice, she glanced over her shoulder to him, watching as he made his way around the wall to stop just shy of her side.

"So, what's your diagnosis? Completely fucked in the head or simply off my rocker?"

She smiled and joked, but Will saw the slight puff to her eyes, the tinge of red to white. Pushing the back of his legs into the wall, Will grasped the edge and pulled himself up, taking a seat next to her.

"Perhaps a bit of both, nothing much different then the rest of us."

His attempt at trying to ease her was poor even to his own hears and eyes. The thing was, Hemlock _wasn't_ like the rest of them. She wasn't like anybody else he had ever seen before. She was something… Other. And that wasn't just due to her life and experiences. She housed an unmistakable sort of warmth to her, a fire, a lighthouse that seemed to shine and call to others, offering sanctuary and understanding. Yet, she could be subtly manipulative, coldly calculating, taunting even, given on what he had witnessed of her reaction and slide remark to Freddie Lounds and Abigail Hobbs. She could joke and laugh and brush off monumental emotional injuries, like she had just previously done, and yet, he had seen how she reacted when she thought others were in pain. Seeing Will, himself, insulted by Freddie, she had become viciously derisive, belaying her almost ominous threats as a joyful, friendly jab that were all too easy to look over.

She watched, observed, she soaked in other people like a sponge, and yet, she, herself, was closed off, guarded, isolated, never allowing anyone close until she had an alternative reason to do so, and normally, Will would guess, that reason wasn't for intimacy. No, she seemingly outrightly detested closeness by the way she had shied away from Alana and left in a sweep of bouncing curls and a slammed door. She was funny and light and playful and still, he saw that seeping wound in her, that darkness, that tiny hint of decay, and it only made her even more… _Fascinating._ Hemlock Potter was a bundle of contradictions dipped into a pool of starlight and dusted with a dash of decadent sin.

"I know it's wrong. I _know_ what and who Tom was. I'm _not_ delusional. He slaughtered, maimed, tortured, killed… He took my parents from me. He tried to take my family. He would have killed Alana if he knew she existed. He killed countless friends of mine. Tom Riddle was a monster."

Will licked his lips and pushed his glasses up his nose further.

"And yet, you still cared for him, in some way. You still saw a tiny slither of yourself in him. Perhaps he saw the same in you, and that is why, really, against all logical reasoning, he came after you time and time again."

From what Will had read from her file, from what Harry had just told, from what he… _Felt_ , Tom Riddle had latched onto Harry for more reasons than simply believing she would end up killing him. Tom had plenty of chances to kill her, to finish what he started, quick ways, simple ways, and yet, he seemingly always gave her a chance to get out of them, to out do him, to out smart him. It made Will wonder, seriously consider, whether this Tom Riddle was truly trying to kill her as an end result, or whether, subconsciously, he had been testing her, trying to create someone in his mirror image. To create an heir. To have a daughter. In the end, Will didn't think Harry was alone in thinking of Tom like a parent. As sick as that possibility was.

"What? To kill the newer monster before it can take over from the old one? Maybe."

Will shook his head.

"No. Perhaps he saw the good in you that he never got to have and in so, tried to take it for himself. You are not a monster for caring, Hemlock."

He saw her knuckles bleed to white as her grip on the edge of the wall became strangling tight.

"Then why do I feel like one?"

Will bit his lip and nervously patted at his cargo pants. Perhaps today was not only a day for Hemlock to open up, but for himself to do so too.

"He got into your head, didn't he? I know what that's like. To have them there, in the shadows, pulling your strings, haunting your dreams, whispering in your ear so lowly, you don't know whether it's their voice or the wind."

She understood straightaway, like he knew she would.

"Garret Jacob Hobbs?"

Will nodded. It was nice, having someone who knew what it felt like. Who knew what it was like to lose a part of yourself to something, someone, darker. To be chipped and replaced by a piece of them. Understanding, for people like them, for Hemlock and Will, was hard to come by.

"You are not Tom Riddle. Nor will you become him."

Her breath stuttered.

"I miss him."

It must have been the first time she'd allowed herself to admit that, perhaps both mentally and verbally, by the way the words catched in her throat and nearly suffocated her. No doubt, if she told people back home, people who knew both her and Tom, with their own emotional trauma linked to Voldemort and what he had done, they would have burnt her at the stake. No one likes the person who sympathizes with the devil. Will knew that better than anyone.

"And that's completely fine."

Harry arched a brow and eyed him wearily.

"Really?"

Will shrugged and turned to look out at the car park splaying out before them.

"Yes. Just like it's okay for Abigail to miss her father. Emotions are more complex than black and white. You can love and hate. Praise and condemn. Miss a person and be so totally relieved that they are gone."

For a while, they simply looked out at the horizon, before Harry broke the peace. Will was coming to find out Hemlock was good at that.

"She'll forgive you, you know?"

Will Frowned and his eyes darted back to hers, looking at her nose.

"Who?"

Her feet began to swing in tandem, one and then the other, like a pendulum or a ticking clock. Left, right, left, right, left, right. It was calming, in a way.

"Abigail. She's angry at the moment. She's lashing out. She doesn't blame you for her father's death… Not really. She just needs to let her anger out and, well, you're an easy target."

Will laughed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair.

"I thought I was meant to be the empathic one?"

Hemlock shot him a smile, but her eyes drifted upwards once more, eyeing the clouds overhead with a peaceful glaze to her face. A strange urge struck him then. For a brief second, he wanted to snap a photo. Just one. And keep it close. He batted that urge away as soon as it came. He wasn't normally one given to inappropriate impulses, especially to young teenagers.

"Ah, but I can map out behaviour, remember? Abigail's behaviour is bloody translucent. If she's going to survive in this world, with what is to come, she's going to have to start masking those behavioural patterns of hers. Her half arsed attempt at emotional degradation and manipulation to get a rise out of me would have made Tom howl in laughter. She's shite at manipulation, but, given her doe-eyed look and little trembling mouse-like voice, if properly executed, she would be good at garnering a sympathetic ear and well, sympathetic people are less likely to dig into someone's motives."

Why would Hemlock want Abigail Hobbs to become more diligent in emotional subterfuge? Unless…

"You believe she helped her father."

Furthermore, Harry was thinking of ways Abigail could use to hide that conclusion. Harry's gaze snapped towards him and her voice became frosty and slippery, like melting snow.

"It doesn't matter what _I_ believe."

Will's mind started churning.

"Jack Crawford sees that possibility already and he will want to explore that conclusion. If you believe-"

Harry cut him off.

"What does it matter? If she helped her father, or not, what is done is done. Nothing is going to bring the victims back. Nothing and no one will ease the pain of the families, even if they have a live person to blame. If she didn't help, she's an innocent girl who will come to face a lot of backlash for something she had nothing to do with. _If_ she did, then it was under duress, wasn't she? She was under thumb of a psychotic man, her father, who she loved dearly… Like me. Is locking a person up for that justice?"

Will chose his words carefully.

"You never answered the question. Do you think Abigail helped her father?"

Her feet picked up speed in their swing. Movement. She was always in movement. Never still. He saw her as that comet again, hurling across the sky, opening a path of light through the night.

"As I said, my opinion means nothing… Especially now. Any opinion I give now will be linked back to my own trauma and labelled as _personally muddled._ In court or anywhere, my testimony will be struck off as subjective and a conflict of interest. If I was brought in as a witness on a stand, should Abigail face charges, even the most idiotic defendant could and would shred any and all testimony I give after what just happened back in that room."

It all clicked into place. Hemlock outwardly coming forth with her normally guarded feelings, opening up about her past personally, randomly bringing to light what she, herself, perceived to be her biggest sin, her connection and relationship to Tom Riddle, well… It hadn't been so random after all, and not only used to comfort Abigail. She had planned it all out. She had saw the file, knew Abigail Hobbs's case, knew Crawford, Alana, Hannibal, even himself, knew exactly what they would think, feel and act with Abigail… She had saw their _behavioural patterns,_ all of them, and she had jumped ten steps ahead of them before any of them had even reached the hospital.

Hemlock had rightly guessed Crawford would be sceptical of Abigail. She also knew he would likely send psychiatrists he trusted, Hannibal and Alana, to talk with the girl. Once that failed, she knew he would bring in her and Will. She also knew Crawford would try and set them onto convicting her or finding a lick of guilt.

By outing herself, by letting people like Hannibal and Alana witness it, who by medical oath and moral standards, would tell Jack Crawford that Harry was not able to subjectively look at Abigail without seeing herself or her own trauma, Harry had systematically eliminated herself from being used against Abigail and so, had blocked a well needed path Crawford would need to explore to gain any sort of guilt on Abigail. With Will already so close and personally involved with Abigail, having killed her father, that left both her and Will out of the equation on how to trap Abigail. She was smart. Lethal. She had played them all like a game of chess and not once, never, did she have to lie. The funniest thing about this was Crawford had not even moved a piece yet and had no idea Hemlock had already check-mate'd him.

"Why do this?"

In short time, Harry chose her next words diligently, carefully, almost jealously.

"Perhaps Tom saw himself in me, there's no way to really tell now seen as he's dead. But, as you said, I am _not_ Tom Riddle. I won't destroy something because I see a reflection of myself in it."

There it was. Tom saw himself in Hemlock, saw the light he didn't get to have, and Hemlock saw the life, the ending, she never got to have with Tom in Abigail. Reflections hidden in reflections.

"You see yourself in Abigail…"

Once again, she wouldn't outrightly say whether she did or didn't and finally, Will clued in to her real motives. She wasn't only protecting Abigail, should it turn out that she did help her father, but she was also trying to protect _him._

If she outrightly said she thought Abigail had aided her father, to Will, he would be morally obligated to inform Jack Crawford. A moral call he wouldn't be able to ignore. However, Will had his own emotional ties to Abigail, he had orphaned the girl, he had some form of responsibility to her, could he really cast doubt on her when Abigail was so fragile herself? No, he didn't think he could.

Nonetheless, Crawford was smart. He would find out. He already had his suspicions on Abigail Hobbs involvement in the Minnesota Shrike cases and should he discover Hemlock had told Will of her own misgivings, which he would find out, Jack was good at sniffing out secrets, Will would be as culpable as Hemlock for not voicing those concerns to Crawford. If things went good, they could get a slap on the wrists, unlikely, but if things turned sour, which is what Hemlock likely believed they would do, then they would both be done for perverting the path of justice.

In not giving Will a definitive answer to his question, she was guarding him from that outcome, and yet again, placing herself into that line of fire. No, she wasn't ten steps ahead, she was thirty. She also had an ungodly sized Martyrdom complex. Something Will would have to try and teach her to curve.

"There's a young woman back there, in that room. She's alone. She's scared. She's backed into a corner. She's going to have plenty of people come after her, looking for blood to be paid, blood that isn't rightfully hers to pay. I _know_ what that feels like. She needs help. I'm not about to turn my back on that, innocent or not… Are you, Will?"

The problem was, Will had seen her plan, slower, but he had saw it and now knew what she was up to. By the gleam in her eye, the heavy question she asked, she knew he had figured it out too. Still, without verbal admittance, Will was left in the clear in the eyes of the court. Could he turn his back on Abigail? If she had helped her father, a conclusion Will still wasn't quite ready to come to despite Hemlock's obvious planning around and for it, could he turn his back? Throw her to Crawford? To a life behind bars?

"No."

Hemlock locked eyes with him.

"Do you still think I'm not Tom now?"

Hemlock knew Will saw her true actions, saw her own well-planned manipulation, orchestration and execution of events in the hospital. In so, she believed he saw her as Tom. He could see it in her eyes, the reluctant acceptance, the bearing pain, because that was how she saw herself. She saw behaviour and she matched them together. Will, however, saw in shades of emotion. Her motives were opposite, she wished to protect, not destroy. Her emotions came from a warm place, not cold. She couldn't be further away from Tom if she tried.

In answer, Will reached a hand out, settled it over her own, skin against skin, and held.

"I _see_ Hemlock Potter. No one else. Nothing else."

Her hand shook underneath his as she slowly turned the limb around, threaded her fingers through his and squeezed tightly.

* * *

 **Alana's P.O.V**

Abigail was back in her room, settled and sleeping, after going for a walk and a chat with Hannibal and Will. Alana had excused herself to get a cup of coffee from the cafeteria, after asking for a quick word with Hannibal, privately, before they all set out. It didn't take long for the Dr to catch up with her, and even less time for Alana to butt straight into the crux of the situation.

"You knew, didn't you? You knew and you didn't say a thing."

Alana asked none too politely as she and Hannibal disembarked from the cafeteria in the back of the hospital, heading for the central car part out front.

"I had a suspicion that Voldemort's and Hemlock's connection was more complicated, yes."

Her grip around her steaming travel mug tightened as she tried to valiantly even her breathing out. In, and out, timed to the click of her steps. In, out. Simple. Calm.

"And you didn't tell me? You didn't give me a heads up? This is why you brought her here today, wasn't it? You knew something in Abigail would crack through to Harry and have her break."

She couldn't look at him. She could barely speak. She was feeling so much. Guilt, regret, anger, confusion, they all became muddled together, a swarming, wriggling heap of bitterness.

"Break? No, Alana. That was not Hemlock breaking. You know her better than me, do you not?"

Perhaps not if Hannibal had seen this before she had.

"She does not open up easily, and from what I have witnessed, not without a prominent ulterior motive to push her to do so. The first step to recovery of any trauma is admittance of its existence in its entirety. To heal from the wounds Tom Riddle has inflicted upon her, she must admit, to herself, the true extent of them and their complete truthfulness. Now that she has acknowledged her own emotional ties towards Tom Riddle and his memory, she can truly begin to move on from them."

 _Emotional ties._ She shouldn't have any ties, nothing, linking her to that… That monster. Before Alana could refute, rebut or argue any of Hannibal's points, he was marching forward steadily.

"She is a brilliant young woman. Strong too. Stronger than many people give her credit for. It is time for people to start seeing Hemlock Potter for who she is, and not what she has lived through."

Alana grimaced. Was that what she had been doing? Seeing ghosts? How could she not see her sister, think of Lily, when looking into those startling green eyes? How could she not think of hurt and loss and death when she caught a glimpse of Hemlock's scars? Hemlock was a smart girl, surely, she had picked up on that and in so, had been reminded of her own past through Alana's reactions. She wondered what it was like, to have someone look upon you and never really _see_ you, only to see phantoms. It wasn't a pleasant thought and Hemlock's reluctance to truly open up prior to today made a bit more sense to a frazzled Alana. Yet, Hannibal wasn't finished.

"Abigail Hobbs wishes to return home."

Why was he bringing up that now? Then it fell into place. Hannibal wanted Hemlock to accompany Abigail to her home. Not only was that a highly dangerous move for Abigail, it was dangerous for her niece. Alana scoffed.

"No. That's-… No. Not only could that be detrimental to Abigail's own recovery, Hemlock's obvious participation could lead to her own traumatic disassociation. It's too soon."

Hannibal didn't miss a beat.

"Hemlock sees herself in Abigail Hobbs. Perhaps in her assistance and witnessing of Abigail's recovery process may prove helpful in her own. Jack Crawford will wish for Abigail to return home, we both know this, in case she can lead to any clues or hints to where the rest of her fathers' victims reside. He will also push for Hemlock and Will to be participants in this endeavour, should they be able to see something none of us can."

Disorderly. That's what Alana felt. Everything felt like it was slipping from her control and, quite frankly, Alana was neither used to the feeling nor did she particularly enjoy it.

"As her guardian, if I explicitly deny Crawford's offer, then there is nothing he can do."

Hannibal's steps besides her stopped, leading Alana to putter off to a halt herself, turning to face the tall man.

"As Hemlock's guardian, would you really put your own comfort ahead of her recovery?"

It felt like a slap around the face.

"My comfort? This has nothing to do with my comfort!"

Hannibal began walking again with his long, sure stride, leaving Alana to trail after him.

"Doesn't it? You see Hemlock as fragile because your own views upon the experiences of your niece have left yourself feeling fragile. That is why you are trying to keep her away from this, from any sort of reminder, not because it might effect her, but because it is effecting _you._ However, neither you or Hemlock can hide from facing these experiences if your niece is to ever fully heal from her trauma."

Was she projecting onto Harry? When she looked at Hemlock, all she saw was a child, a hurt, abused child, but really, Hemlock had been through too much to be a simple child anymore. Maybe she never had been one. She never got the chance. And that's what worried Alana so. She deserved freedom. She deserved happiness. She deserved to relax and simply live as she should, as a normal sixteen-year-old girl. However, perhaps that was what Alana needed to see, for her own wellbeing, and not what Hemlock, her Harry, actually needed. Perhaps Alana was hiding, trying to shy away from really facing what a member of her family had been through, what she had missed. In her guilt of not being there, Alana was over-reaching her presence. Imposing. Implanting her idea of a suitable life onto a girl who, very clearly, had other wishes and wants. Why would she agree to help on a case with Will Graham, why would she agree to come here today, otherwise?

The bite of the wind stung Alana's cheeks as they made it outside. Almost immediately, her eyes found Hemlock, with Will, sitting on a small wall circling the parking lot, waiting. The sight was unexpected, but pleasant. Hemlock was gesturing something wildly with her hands, her feet swinging, speaking a mile a minute though Alana was too far away to hear a word of it. However, she saw Will laugh and shake his head as he answered, she saw Hemlock join in with the laughter. It was then that Alana realised, through the half smiles Hemlock had offered her so far, this was truly the first time she had seen her happy since her arrival.

"Your niece is no longer alone. However, neither can she solely rely on you. Now, more then ever, she needs a strong support network around her. She has found the beginnings of that network in Will, you, Abigail, and perhaps, me… She has accepted further Therapy sessions."

Alana frowned and glanced up to Hannibal. She hadn't expected that. Harry had seemed so set against it that Alana had been surprised Harry had even gone to one this morning.

"She has?"

Hannibal inclined his head.

"She is stronger than she looks and more independent than most, likely due to the sort of life she has led. She will heal in her own way. To stop her from doing could be disastrous. Abigail Hobbs has proven to be a choice of Hemlock's recuperation that she has chosen herself. To begin to deny Hemlock her own choices would only damage your own bonds with her, as she would likely see it as condescending and patronizing that, after all she has been through, you do not trust her enough to see what is best for herself. She will only isolate herself more than she already has. Her approval of further therapy sessions has already demonstrated that she knows what she needs to do to begin to heal… Alana, believe in your niece."

Alana's eyes slipped closed and she found herself muttering to the dark void of her eyelids.

"I do believe in niece… I just don't trust she knows exactly what she will be facing if she follows Hobbs back to her home. I don't trust that she's ready to face her own demons quite yet."

Her eyes opened once more and the first thing she saw was that bone white stick in Hemlock's hair. Taunting her. Tom Riddle, Voldemort, that was his. Hemlock had been carrying around a piece of him all this time. Alana felt viscerally sick at the very sight of that damned stick and the thought of what it could mean for and to her niece. That thing belonged to the man who killed her sister, who nearly killed her niece, who Hemlock admitted she, relatively speaking, saw as her father. The thought was vile. Repugnant. What had that monster done to her niece? What else was she hiding? How deep had he gotten into her head to have her think of him as such…?

And what right did Alana have to judge? She had not been there. She had not witnessed, and she was projecting again. Hannibal was right. She needed to stop that. For Hemlock. And obviously, she couldn't be objective enough on the topic of Hemlock to see things as clearly as she wished to. Hannibal gently grasped onto her shoulder, slowly swinging Alana around to face him.

"Then trust me. I will look after Hemlock. You do trust me, don't you Alana?"

But, perhaps, Hannibal could be objective. Alana trusted Hannibal. Almost inconceivably so. Her shoulders sagged as her defenses dropped. From the corner of her eye, she saw Will and Harry laughing once more.

"Of course I trust you. Just… Keep an eye her, please."

Hannibal smiled, nodded, dropped his hand and the two began to walk towards Will and Harry.

"My gaze will not wonder even for a moment Alana. You have my word."

* * *

 **YAAAS! Or NAAAH! ?**

 **QUICK QUESTION:** Do we like these longer chapters, or should I go back to shorter ones?

I know this chapter was more dialogue heavy than descriptive, but it's just how this one turned out. I think it works well for this segment of the story, especially seen as we are currently outside of Harry's head were most of the inner monologuing and conscious streams of lucidity happens, and we only took a quick dive into Will's this chapter.

 **THANK YOU,** to everyone who has followed and favourited, I hope you liked this chapter, and a huge cyber hug to everyone who reviewed, you input really does keep me coming back to this fic and working on it, thinking up new lines, plots, relationships! I really can't thank you all enough for all your kind words!

 _ **As always, have a thought? Opinion? Question? Drop a review. They keep the pen scribbling away ;)**_


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER FOUR: PUMPKIN JUICE PART TWO:**

* * *

 _48 hours ago..._

Hemlock's P.O.V

Hemlock Potter couldn't look away. She was rooted to the spot, fixed in time to that particular moment, existing and non-existent simultaneously. Like Schroedinger's cat, she was both boxed into this instant, absolutely transfixed, and scattered across her past, present and future, and the endless variants of choices not taken. There, on the hallway wall of the Hobbs residence, mounted in a set of three, were deer heads. The right one was a stag, antlers proud and finely curved. The left mahogany plaque housed the doe, nose elegantly sloping and ears perked up in sleety alarm. In the middle, down a level, was the fawn, its large black eyes too big for its skull, its ginger coat still mottled with milk white splodges. The problem came when Harry blinked.

The proud twist of James Potters chin was overlaid by the film over his cold, dead eyes. The alarming gape of her mothers mouth was rotten, blood still leaking from a silenced scream. Her own head was smiling, peaceful almost, as maggots squirmed and inched through carved flesh. For, in a blink, it wasn't just deer heads, trophies, hung up on white washed wall. It was her, Hemlock, enclosed by the horrifying image of her dead parents, decapitated, gutted, still bleeding and weeping and… Another blink, and the image was gone.

 _They're just deer head. Just deer heads. Deer heads._

But that was the kicker, wasn't it? They weren't just deer heads. Not to Hemlock. The irony of this picture wasn't, and couldn't, be lost on Harry. The stag was _her_ family emblem. Once upon a time, just like this small herd of deer, she and her parents had been tracked, hunted, shot, and, eventually, mounted on a mad man's wall. Once upon a time, finally, Harry in turn had tracked, hunted, shot that mad man, her Tom, and in her hair, threaded through bun, she had taken her own trophy. His wand. Scavenged from the remnants of an abattoir masquerading as a battlefield, pried from stiff finger, snatched. Stolen. Just like Tom had taken her sanity. So, who had been the hunter and the prey, in the end? Who had created who? Like Schroedinger's cat, perhaps it was both and neither.

Did it even matter any more? Not really. Tom was gone, and here she was, and there were no victors or victims in their sorry little tale. Just death, deer heads, declivity and disillusion. Still, the deer heads were an… Unpleasant reminder of Harry's sordid past, and if she was alone in the house, if there had been no witnesses, she would have burnt the whole building down. Perhaps she may have left Abigail Hobbs inside as she did so. Merlin knew she deserved it. Alana too, if the mood struck. Maybe she would have fetched Crawford and chucked him into the bonfire as well. Molly. Hermione. Draco. Ron. All of them. The more the merrier, they say. Maybe, just maybe, she would have burned the whole world down.

"Are you alright, Hemlock?"

But Harry wasn't alone. She was being watched, observed, studied like a fuckin' feral animal and, right now, she couldn't afford to slip. Straightening her shoulders, she shot a grin, keen, up at doctor Lecter's impressive height.

"Hell is empty. All the devils are here."

Doctor Lecter grinned back at her, and it was as sharp as her own smile. It had become a sort of game between them, a little back and forth banter. Upon greeting, either one of them would quote something, just a line, a snippet, and the other would guess or place the quote. Today was her turn. Hemlock, as begrudgingly as she was to admit it, quite liked their version of saying hello. It was less mundane. Dull. Merlin, she hated things, and people, when they proved to be boring. Doctor Lecter, reluctantly, was proving to be anything but tedious.

Still, she also knew what the good doc was doing. Harry didn't open up, at all, really, no matter how many sessions they had, and Lecter had found more… Creative ways to come and understand Hemlock. Even this, as harmless as it seemed, gave something away. Only her taste in literature, but still, it was something, a glimpse, just one, into her mind. Nevertheless, it was a two way street, and Harry, in turn, got a little flash of the doctor's tastes too. She thought it was a fair deal.

Yet again, there wasn't a crease in sight, a hair out of place, a button undone on doctor Lecter, and, idly, Harry had the urge to push him into a puddle of mud. Or blood. Or ash. She couldn't quite decide on which one. She just wanted to see him dirty, haggard, unclean. She didn't like pure, tidy things. They were often a lie. Mockeries dunked in irony.

"The Tempest, if I am not mistaken."

You see, right there! His voice was pleasant, charming some would say, with his Lithuanian accent thick and rolling like the Scottish hills Harry had called home for a time. Hemlock heard it all the same. In the twist of his vowels, in the dip of the highland caverns, there skulked Tom. Oh, he was hiding something. They all were at the end of the day. Every single, god damned one of them. Will. Alana. Abigail. Crawford. Lecter. Herself. The woman she passed on the street. Even the raccoon scavenging from the Hobbs's bin. Everyone had a secret. Ne plus ultra was a fantasy. But what was doctor Lecter's secret?

Will was his slow decay from his astounding mind, his own haunting of his vivid imagination. Alana tried to hide her imperfections and misgivings behind a strong sense of control. Abigail had played bait for her father, and had gotten lost in the role of playing innocuous victim. Crawford was battling with his conscience, and how far he would go for the 'greater good'. Those secrets, their demon's, Harry had picked up on quickly. But when she looked at doctor Lecter, really looked… Nothing. Blank. Fuck all.

"We both know you're not, Doc. I guess you hardly ever are, are you?"

Hemlock Potter couldn't get a solid read on doctor Lecter, and it unsettled the absolute shit out of her. She could hazard a very weak guess on what he wanted. She could, perhaps, round about say what he would or wouldn't do in a certain situation, and maybe, if the timing was just right, caught in the in between, she knew what he would say, but that was it. And, even worse, Harry would admit, she sort of… Liked it. Far too much, at least.

Doctor Lecter was an enigma wrapped in riddles, dipped in poetry and dusted with contradictions. He was… Interesting. Just when Harry thought she had pinned him down, figured the big bastard out, he took a sharp turn and she was back to square one. It was frustrating. Terrifying. _Exhilarating._

"All that glitters is not gold."

Harry chuckled.

"The Merchant of Venice. I guess we're both feeling a bit tragic today. Or is it comedic? One of the two. The latter, I suspect."

Doctor Lecter hummed.

"It would be inappropriate to feel anything but tragedy in this situation, given the circumstances."

Ah, yes. Here they were, walking Abigail Hobbs about her own home, prying for information, prodding and heckling, and eight girls were dead. Abigail, so far, was giving a good show, Harry would give her that much. Her tears could use some work, she wasn't getting the eyes puffy enough, so could the little flares of indignation she gave when she felt she was being slighted, she was meant to be grieving, but, over all, a C-. Passing, but could do better. Anew, Harry chuckled. Hopefully, Harry could bump that up to at least a B before Crawford got his hands on her.

"If you can't see the comedy in tragedy, then what is the point in life?"

Doctor Lecter patted her shoulder amicably. His hand lingered a moment too long. In a blink, his head had joined Lily's, James and her own on the wall.

"What indeed? Now, Alana has told me you have not been sleeping over the last few nights. Is this true?"

Harry rolled her jaw until it nearly cracked.

"Sometimes I sneeze and my eyes close. Does that count?"

What was she doing here? None of this, these Alana's, Lecter's, Abigail's and Crawford's, had been a part of her plan. Her plan had been simple. Easy. _Boring._ Come to Baltimore. Keep her head down. Wait out five months. Leave. Finished. Instead, she was knee deep in homicides, schemes, nightmares and Tom's voice was shouting in her ear, screaming, yelling, _see, see, see, see…_

See what? That she was, quite possibly, going fucking insane? Yes, she already had the memo on that one. To see that she should leave? Yes, she knew that too! But she couldn't… She couldn't. For one reason. One name. One bloody person. _Will Graham._

Harry didn't want to like Will Graham. In fact, she wanted to hate him. Everything would be easier if she could hate him. He was infuriatingly twitchy, aggravatingly soft and irritatingly gentle, annoyingly optimistic, everything Hemlock wasn't, and she should hate him for it, detest it all. Sometimes, when she was around him, he felt like sand paper, rough and unforgiving, chaffing across her skin, rubbing her raw, setting her nerves on fire, cracking her armour, wearing her down swipe by bloody swipe. And he was broken. Completely broken. A porcelain doll with it's face caved in, cracked like a spider web. Broken in such a tragic, beautiful way.

 _Broken like her._

Will had been right that day, in the car parking lot of the hospital. Harry, as small as it was, saw a tiny slither of herself in someone, and, like Will said, she didn't want to destroy it. She wasn't Tom. She saw herself, barely passed six, knobbly kneed and bruised, beaten, scarred, alone and scared, but still with that naive hope of a better future the younger her had frailly clasped onto for dear life. Once upon a time, that hope had been all she had. Sometimes Harry wanted to hug that kid, press it so tightly into her chest that its face would forever leave an indent in her ribcage. She wanted to stroke its hair and kiss its head and tell it to come back to her. _Please, come back._ Other days, Harry wanted to wrap her hands around its throat and squeeze until the kicking stopped. That kid had been weak, stupid, manipulated, slow. _Tragedy and comedy._

The thing was, Harry didn't see that kid, a part of herself long thought dead, in Abigail. She saw it in Will. In his optimism. In his warmth. In his _Hope_. A chip of her innocence, innocence that had been snatched from her by Tom, was mirrored in Will's own hope. Will really believed Abigail was guiltless. He hoped she wasn't like her father. So, Harry would keep that lie alive. For Will, and, perhaps, for herself too. For the memory of the child she never got to be. Harry may never get to once again feel or taste that child like innocence and hope again, her time of purity was gone, but some small reincarnated fleck of it could find freedom if Will's hope still lived. Unfortunately, the only way to keep Will's hope alive was to keep Abigail innocent. Keeping Abigail Hobbs innocent meant Harry had to go back, back to the darkness, the grim places, where nightmares floated and Tom lurked and everything hurt.

"Unfortunately for us all, that does not count, Hemlock. What is bothering you?"

When Harry was… tracing someone, mapping doctor Lecter called it, she felt like she was plunging her head into a vat of boiling thick black oil, her skin slogging off as she broke for air, piece by tattered piece, leaving nothing but charred bones, their face being stitched over the pitted ruin that was her skull with barb wired thread. Tom's skin suit had felt like it was made from shards of glass spritzed with industrial bleach. The mushroom killer had felt loamy, springy, but with the sting of a wasp in the eye. Bellatrix had felt like a million stars, tiny, exploding over the surface of her skin, setting her on fire with cold, frigid heat. Fenrir felt like a crown of fangs embedding into her skull, martyring her. Thorfinn Rowle felt like the arctic ocean, salty with shackles of seaweed. Dolohov felt like the very precipice of a knife, slowly being sunk into pupil.

"As I said, Doc. Hell is empty..."

All the devils were here, and Harry was wearing their many, so many, grotesque faces.

"Then we have plenty of work to do. Shall we begin?"

Harry nodded. In the end, their faces felt better than her own. Hollow. Pyrrhic. Shadows hiding in the dead of the night. Smoke. Harry felt like smoke, fog, and you couldn't hold onto smoke. And so, as doctor Lecter began to walk into the kitchen where muted voices were muffled by brick wall, Harry dutifully followed him. She needed to find another face to stop her own from escaping.

* * *

Hannibal Lecter's P.O.V

"Hemlock?"

Hannibal asked hesitantly as he stepped out the front door of the Hobbs residency, gently shutting the door behind him. Hemlock was just down from the patio, pacing, seven steps right, twirl, seven steps left, twirl, repeat. Hannibal cocked his head to the side. Hemlock had a predisposition towards that innocuous number. She used seven elastics in her hair. She tied her shoes seven times until the bow on her timberlands was nothing but a ball resembling the Gordian knot. She even knocked on doors in a bout of seven. On the surface, it could have been a small case of OCD. The pattern fit. Nevertheless, like the girl herself, Hannibal would not take anything on her surface level as fact. Just as she wouldn't take his façade, as well crafted as it was, at face value.

Hannibal Lecter had always, since birth, had a remarkable sense of smell. Of course he did. It was one of his many indulgences. Hemlock Potter was beautiful, in a very chaotic, contorted way, Hannibal would readily admit. Thin boned, delicate, pale skin, hair as black as a ravens wing, aristocratic features of sharp sweeping lines, and eyes so vibrant they bordered on unnatural, Hannibal could understand the appeal if he, himself, was given to base reaction and emotions. But he wasn't. When he had first met Hemlock, it wasn't her appearance, her sad past, the tempting trauma, or her sardonic wit that had captured his initial attention. It had been her smell.

She smelled of honeysuckle, rain with the musky scent of smoke, and something sharp, unnamable, energetic, like a flash of lightning cracking across the night sky. If electricity, energy, had a smell, it would have been that tantalizing note Hemlock carried with her. If magic existed, Hannibal fancied this was what it would smell like. And it was that smell that had first drawn his eye. Her squalid history had only furthered that first glint of curiosity. Sixteen, survivor, fighter, orphan… Killer. So much trauma, so much pain, so much potential. She was a viable, walking, talking candy store.

Originally, after reading her file before she had strolled into Crawford's office, Hannibal had thought of pushing her, just enough, to see her break. He wondered who would be caught in the explosion of her self destruction. However, then he had witnessed Hemlock and Will together, and that was the true beauty. They had connected like two jigsaw puzzle pieces, clinking, and had bounced between one another, two live wires meeting in a vacuum, almost as one being instead of two. It was _fascinating_.

Nevertheless, it was her mind that had corked his curiosity into steadfast intrigue and held his attention. She was well educated, highly intelligent, versed in Latin, philosophy and literature. Yet, she down played her intelligence behind a sarcastic, almost scathing bite many around her took as dark humour. She swore like a sailor, dressed horrendously, had a dire taste in music, and had barely any patience for those she deemed 'dull'. She was nihilistic, pragmatic to the point of contention, and she prolificly played mind games with those around her. And she was good at it, whether she was conscious of what she was doing or not. She could find the artistry in the grotesque, and that was a skill often lacking in people. A skill she shared with Will Graham.

Hemlock Potter, like Will Graham, had the potential to become something _more,_ and it was that potential Hannibal favoured to work with _._ Hannibal simply wanted to see what that _more_ was, if it could be something remotely like himself, reflections in reflections, or something knew and unseen. However, trying to mould Hemlock was proving… Difficult. Hemlock was an enigma wrapped in riddles, dipped in poetry and dusted with contradictions. She was… Riveting. And entirely too aware for her own good.

Hemlock and Will, on some higher level, had connected unlike anything Hannibal had witnessed before. It was this connection that was Hannibal's in. As antisocial and combative as Hemlock was, she liked Will Graham, as much as she obviously didn't want to, and Will, as isolated and fractured as he was, had found some form of companionship, equality and understanding in Hemlock. Reel one in, and the other would follow. They wouldn't be able to help it.

Withal, without testing this _potential_ , Hannibal was unsure of the ability it could transform into, and so, he had taken to more, let's call it, creative endeavours. His 'copycat' killing on Cassie Boyle had tested Will, and as Hannibal watched Will reconstruct the meaning behind the kill, Hannibal had found his potentiality to be workable. Will had come close to understanding, just shy of the truth, and it had been glorious to see. Hemlock, however, had not been present for such a task. Testing her had needed a softer hand. She did see so clearly, after all. It wouldn't do for her to spot him before he was ready to step forward.

"Will's in danger."

And that was the door to Hemlock's mind creaking open. Of course, using Abigail Hobbs to lure in Will and Hemlock had been a risky plan, but, evidentially, the right one. Will felt duty bound to Abigail, perhaps even parental, and if Hannibal got the young girl on side, Will would follow, and if Will followed, Hemlock would not be far behind. Dominoes falling one by one. Hannibal pulled away from the door, taking a few steps closer to the marching girl in front of him.

"Will is fine, I assure you-"

"You don't understand!"

She snapped, more to herself than to him, Hannibal thought, as she froze and began to frantically scrub at her face. It almost looked like she wanted to peel her own face off. Hannibal wished he could see inside her head, see what neurons were firing, where the connections were being made, the spark of that brilliant mind, so alike and so different to Will's and his own, blazing in all directions. Hannibal crossed the distance and gently clasped her shoulders.

"Then help me understand. I cannot help if I cannot understand."

Hemlock's hands fell away from her face like the burnt orange leaves of the dead trees around them. Her eyes were flickering, never coming to meet his own dark gaze, but Hannibal could see she was seeing something, connecting, _mapping._ Good. She really was smart, quick, precise. When she spoke, it was in a rush of words, a waterfall, blurring, fluid, words bleeding together into one undulating mass of rippling panic.

"I didn't know about the phone call. No one told me about the phone call! Merlin, I can feel him. He feels like rose petals doused in itching powder. No. Not itching powder. Bloody anthrax. Rose petals covered in anthrax. He feels like Tom and I can't get it off!"

Ah, so it had worked. Hemlock had not been present for the Minnesota Shrike case, she had came later, but with her involvement with Abigail Hobbs, Jack Crawford had produced a file for her to catch her up on the case. The man had given it to Hannibal to pass onto Hemlock on their journey over to Minnesota. It had only taken a quick flick through to find any references to the phone call placed to Garret Jacob Hobbs, and subsequently discard those papers, for Hannibal to test the waters. When Hemlock had read the file in the car, going over the details, she was none the wiser that there had been any connection between the copycat killing and Garret beyond the similarities of their murders. That is, before Will had begun to question Abigail about the phone call.

" _The attacks on you and your mother were different. They were desperate. Your dad knew he was out of time. Somebody told him we were coming."_

 _Abigail wrapped her arms around her torso, gaze darting to counter top, a little landline sitting pretty by the window sill._

" _The man on the phone?"_

 _Hemlock's gaze zeroed in on Will._

" _What man on the phone?"_

It was ingenious of himself, if he did say so. To truly see how Hemlock worked, to see that mind turn over and connect, to test her potential, to see if she could actually understand him as what he truly was, Hannibal needed to see her working when she had the rug pulled from underneath her feet. It just so coincided that it was Jack Crawford who had given Hannibal the perfect opportunity to surprise Hemlock by selecting him to be the one to hand the file over. Once again, Hemlock was working overtime, trying to connect all those little hints and clues to get a picture.

"If there was a copycat who was simply acting out what he or she had seen from the paper or news sites, then Cassie Boyle's murder made sense in that obtuse sort of way. They were just going off sparse details. Apathetic mimicry. But if there was a phone call, if this copycat killer knew Garret Jacob Hobbs, knew him enough to warn him the police were coming..."

Hannibal fought back a smile, instead keeping his face as blank as a sheet of snow.

"Then they should have known enough details to create a better copy."

Hemlock was in movement again, seven, seven, seven, seven. Back and forth. Like the tide or a tornado, swept up and flying high.

"So, if they purposefully left details out, changed the modus operandi, they weren't copying at all. Not really. They were leaving a message. A message only a select few could read."

She violently shook her head.

"It wasn't meant for Garret Jacob Hobbs, no. If it was, it would have been the perfect copy. Who else would this killer try speaking to? Crawford? No. Crawford wouldn't be able to see the message. The Public? No. Too large of an audience for such a nuanced message. Who else? Who else? Who..."

Such a shrewd, astute mind. It really was beautiful to see it working. Especially when working on his own actions. Personal. Intimate. Unguarded. Exactly how Hannibal wanted it to be. Slowly, Hemlock turned to face him dead on.

"Will Graham. They… They were trying to speak to Will."

Hemlock folded her arms around herself, and the fingers lacing over her biceps tapped in patterns of seven.

"Then that makes the changes more important than the similarities. In his own way, this killer was trying to convey what Hobbs wasn't. By killing the Boyle girl as he did, coldly, calculatedly, meticulous with the detached sort of empathy of a butcher carving a pig, left in a tablaux for all the world to see, the exact opposite of Hobbes who adored his victims, cherished each part of them, then they were aiming Will in the right direction."

Just a little nudge.

"But why would the copycat do such a thing?"

Hemlock didn't need more than two seconds before she found her answer in a grimace.

"Because he's not a copycat at all. He's a fluent artist. Killing, in a way, is another language. Each killer has their own vowels and consonants, a specific way they dot their I's and cross their T's. This killer wasn't copying, he was mimicking a language Will had already partially translated. _He was communicating._ This… This was a hello… an I see you. We've ignored his greetings. And what do you do when someone doesn't hear you?"

Hemlock took a lone step closer, voice dropping to a hushed whisper.

"You shout louder."

Just a little bit farther. She could do it. Go on. _Go on._

"Or, perhaps, he will walk away."

Hemlock laughed and waved a hand around her, flippant.

"Oh, no. This… This is a game to him."

Hannibal made sure to keep his frown in place, to twist his lips just enough to show disturb. Just… A… bit… Farther. She could do it. Hannibal knew she could. She was so close. So close. Just a few steps more.

"How can you be so sure?"

Hemlock's answering smile was a broken thing. Broken and beautiful.

"Because when I think of this killing, when I map their behaviour, now that I know everything was a ploy, the copycat had known all along… I see Tom."

The laughter that followed was just as damaged and splendid as the smile still staining her face like the blood spotting the patio beneath their feet.

"And Tom never walked away from a game."

Neither did Hannibal. Neither did Will. Neither did Hemlock herself. The temptation was too strong for people like them. The chase too enticing. Most would never understand the hunt, the adrenaline of a well matched mental battle, the urge to push until everything around you was broken. But they did. Will would continue to work for the FBI until his mind became scrambled and shattered because he, no matter how much he protested, could not see himself doing anything but exactly this. Hemlock would continue walking the murky paths she walked because the darkness was her home, where she had been raised and fed. Hannibal would continue to do what he did because, well, he enjoyed it all far too much. Still, Hemlock needed one more little nudge. She was close. So very, very close to understanding. So close to getting to the pit, to the one thing even Will had not picked up.

"Do you know why this killer would be trying to communicate with Will? Drawing unnecessary attention seems dangerous, far too much, for a simple greeting."

Hemlock scoffed.

"Boredom? Arrogance? If he was anything like Tom than-"

Hannibal could see the exact moment the thought struck her. In slow motion, he saw her blink, the smile dropping, chest expanding with a long, drawn in breath, eye opening to pin-pricked pupil which locked onto his own with a startling ferocity of emerald flame and jade light. Finally, she saw _him._ Tom Riddle was a curious character. His motive, unlike those given in his thick file, was not about power. Control. Immortality. Riddle had been in the process of trying to create something in his own image, something that could understand him. Riddle had not lived long enough to see his creation come to fruition, neither had he nurtured it enough to not have it turn around and bite him, but Hannibal was here, and Hannibal thought it magnificent.

"They're _lonely_. Like Tom, they're lonely. In some fundamental basic way, Will understands that. Or at least, he will. This killer sees that potential. He's lonely enough to risk it all for that understanding. That's what he wants. Understanding."

Hannibal's voice, soft, tugged Hemlock deeper into the pit of rose petals laced in anthrax.

"And what would this killer do next, if he is after such recognition?"

Now that Hemlock had the core of the situation in hand, she didn't miss a beat.

"One of two things. Either, they are rash enough to give up hope on this potential and stop while they are ahead, come after Will to tie up the lose end, or they will try to speak again. Either way, a body will be dropping soon. It's _not_ going to be Wills. I won't let it."

Understanding. A simple construct and yet, like Hemlock, contrarily complex. Will understood Hemlock, Hemlock understood Will, and even if the two did not know it was him they were becoming quickly acquainted with, they were beginning to understand Hannibal too. How strange. Hannibal had been wrong. Watching Will and Hemlock snap off each other had not been true beauty. This, here, was true beauty. The connections finally solidifying.

Now, however, the ball was in Hemlock's court. How she handled this information, how she manoeuvred herself next, could be make or break. For her. For Will. For all of them. Hannibal thought, however, from seeing how she reacted to Abigail saying she didn't recognize the voice on the line, storming out here to process and map, smelling the lie a mile away, she would turn her attention to the young Hobbs. Hemlock wouldn't outrightly attack, but she would push. The smart thing to do would be to unbalance Abigail enough, capture enough trust, for Abigail to tell her who the caller was, and therefore, who the threat was. How Hemlock went about that was going to be captivating to see.

"You are a very smart woman Hemlock. Too smart, some would say. And if what you think is true, than this is dangerous, not just for Will, but for yourself too."

Hemlock frowned.

"Why?"

Hannibal's previously lax hand lifted towards her face, palm brushing cheek, fingertips delving into curly locks. Her skin was icy, from the little he had touched her, Hemlock was not one for physical contact, it seemingly always was. His thumb swiped at the thin, almost translucent skin under her eye, bruised a light purple from lack of sleep. _Broken and beautiful._

"Because you too have the ability to see and understand."

The front door opened with a clang and Hemlock skittered away, shoving her own hands into her leather jacket pockets. Hannibal's own fell to his side. Alana's gaze jumped between the two, curious little frown tugging at the centre of her brows.

"Sorry, am I interrupting?"

Hemlock's answering smile was pristine, fresh, completely fake.

"No. I'm okay now. I just didn't sleep well last night. Back there, in the kitchen, I… Well, my brain got muddled. Hannibal… Hannibal helped calm me down."

 _Hannibal._ Not Doctor. Not doctor Lecter. Not Doc. _Hannibal._ This time, Hannibal did smile. Alana's questioning gaze strayed to him and stayed and from the corner of his eye, he could see Hemlock cast a quick flash of a glance his way. She was wondering what he would do. Deny her lie, out her to Alana, or bluff.

"A minor panic attack, that is all. It was to be expected in such an environment. She is calm now."

Alana's shoulders sagged as she grinned. A crack of a branch from behind them startled Hemlock, as her neck snapped around to the direction of the noise, her gaze sweeping the tree line. They settled somewhere off to the right, a spot, from his position, Hannibal could not see. When Alana spoke, however, drawing back Hemlock's attention, her smile was sleek and piercing.

"Will and I are just taking Abigail in to sort through the evidence, if you two are up to it?"

Hemlock waved them both away.

"I'm alright, I just need to take a breather. Head back in, I'll come back shortly."

Hannibal walked towards the front door, Alana speaking as he passed her on the threshold.

"Don't wonder too far, and if you need me, or anything, just yell and I'll come. Okay?"

Hemlock didn't answer, but he guessed she nodded while his back was turned as Alana retreated back into the house with him. Right before the door closed, Hannibal caught sight of Hemlock heading over to the woods. She was already acting.

 _Good._

* * *

Nicholas Boyle's P.O.V

Nicholas Boyle wandered through the woods surrounding the Hobbs house with an unsteady step, the vodka and whiskey still heady in his blood. He didn't want to cause trouble, no, not really. He just wanted to see Abigail Hobbs's face, he needed to, he wanted to look her in the eye and see the truth for himself. Ever since that reporter, Freddie Lounds, had told him that Abigail had been released from the hospital, that she was home, going through her things, talking, living, like his dear sister should have been, Nicholas could not help but need to see it for himself.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It wasn't just. It should have been his sister still here, amongst them, so much taken, his baby sister… No. He just wanted to look Abigail Hobbs in the eye and see if he could see that beast of a father mirrored back. They said father like son, didn't they? But what about daughters? Was there a passing of sin there? Was there? He needed to know. He _needed_ it. Nicholas froze as the ruffling of leaves and dead twigs shuffled from behind him. Turning, vision slightly tilting from the alcohol he had tried to use to drown these sorrowful thoughts, he got a hold of himself just in time to see a young woman breaking through the under-shrub.

She was a young thing, black haired, pale, delicate looking and, when Nicholas blinked, he saw his sister all over again. Smiling, laughing, joking… Impaled on antlers like a hunting cabins trophy. Bile bubbled up his throat, stinging the back of his tongue until he tasted battery acid. When she looked up from the ground, Nicholas saw her green eyes, bright, puffy, red from the tears streaming down her face. She froze in place, half pushing back a low hanging branch, sniffling. Her voice was hoarse, dry, wrecked.

"So, you heard she's home?"

Nicholas swallowed down the sick.

"Who are you?"

The girl ducked and slunk closer through the trees.

"Jessie. My sister… My sister was..."

Nicholas cut the girl, Jessie, off. He wasn't sure whether it was because he couldn't stomach the thought of it, this horror, happening to more young girls, to his own sweet sister, or whether Jesse herself sounded so completely shattered by the omission, of the verbal reminder of what she, _they_ had faced, their sisters had faced, that it was too hard to listen too. Did he look like Jesse? Red eyed, teary and bleached a heart-wrenching pallid? Was that, so broken, so hurt, so alone, what he, too, sounded like?

"My sister too."

The girl inclined her head and that was all there was to say. My sister too. So many sisters. So many daughters. So many friends and loved ones and… It hurt. It hurt too much. Vodka. He needed more vodka and he needed to look Abigail Hobbs in the eye.

"Did Freddie tell you too?"

Jessie frowned at his question, the shade of the trees hooding her eyes.

"Freddie Lounds?"

Nicholas nodded, but his gaze was pulled back to what stood behind him. The Hobbs house. So innocent looking. Beige brick, terracotta tile, jarring graffiti of harsh black lines sprawled across its face.

 _Cannibal._

Cassie had been ate-… She had been cooke-… Oh god. It was too much. It wasn't enough. He needed to know.

"She told me that the girl was back in town. Said it might bring me closure."

There was a certain bite in Jessie's tone when she spoke next, like a winter breeze. It was closer too, as she came to a stand beside him.

"Yeah, she told me the same."

Nicholas couldn't turn away from the graffiti, no matter how hard he tried. His sister. So sweet. So pure. So innocent. _It wasn't right._

"I just want to see her face, you know? I want to look her in the eye and see if there's any remorse there. For what she did, she deserves to burn in hell. No. She deserves worse."

The winter breeze turned into an Arctic blast, filled with venom and anger and blistering hate, all smothered by Jessie's watery tears. Nicholas glanced over his shoulder, down to the short woman. She was sixteen, seventeen perhaps, only a few years younger than his own sister.

"What _she_ did?"

Jessie took in a shuddering breath, using the sleeve of her leather jacket to harshly scrub at her tear stained cheeks, trying hard to hold it together.

"I'm sure you've heard what they're saying. Abigail Hobbs was the bait. My sister was too smart to wonder off with an unknown man. She was smart and beautiful and… She was deceived. Tricked. She had to have been. That bitch lured my sister out and she was cut up and.. I… I can't. I'm sorry."

Nicholas's sister had been smart. A straight A student. She was going to be valedictorian. Cassie was meant to go on to college, study medicine, become a doctor, perhaps get a boyfriend Nicholas would have approved of, settled down, had kids, he would have been an uncle and his sister-

But she was none of those things now, and she would never get the chance to be. His sister was in the morgue, in a cold metal chamber, stitched up, name tag around her toe, missing her lungs and liver, and everything had been taken. But Jessie was right.

Cassie had been smart. Too smart. She wouldn't have wandered off with some strange man old enough to be her father. Had she been tricked? Yes… Yes. She must have. And who better to trick her but an innocent looking girl around her age? Jessie pressed in tight from his side, her voice ghosting along the dimpling skin of his neck and ear.

"At least Hobbs is dead, you know? But what about her? What about Abigail? She's here, under police guard, playing with her things, living her life while my sister, while _our_ sisters were brutalized. What kind of justice is that?"

Almost like an echo, Nicholas answered.

"No justice at all."

Perhaps the grief was getting to him. Perhaps he had drank too much. Perhaps the shadows were playing tricks on his mind, but Nicholas Boyle didn't feel right. He felt strange, compressed, weak. It felt like the air around him had turned fatty, thick, pressing into the thousands of pores in his suddenly frigid skin, fogging his mind, chugging his blood to a stand still. All that really made sense right then was Jessie and her voice, calling out from the fog, like a lighthouse leading him to land.

"Someone needs to teach Abigail Hobbs a lesson. She needs to learn that she can't get away with this. Someone needs to scare her as much as our sisters were scared right before her father tore them apart and _ate_ them. Think of your sister, Nicholas, think of mine. So young. Little lambs. Abigail trapped them for her monster of a father. She lured them in with wide eyes and soft smiles. She's a wolf in sheep's wool. She's dangerous. You feel it too, Nicholas. You know you do. Abigail Hobbs needs to pay for what she's done."

The voice was right at his ear, like a lullaby, singing him further to sleep. But then it stopped, it all stopped, the cold wind, the feeling of the air closing in, suffocating, and the girl, Jessie was stepping back and suddenly Nicholas was back in his body, back in control.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean… My sister was so sweet. She would never have wanted me to feel or say… I can't do this. I'm not strong enough. I have to go."

Jessie stumbled away, tumbling towards where she had first appeared. Nicholas reached out for her.

"Wait!"

Jesse glanced over her shoulder to him, only half her face visible, and Nicholas was transfixed.

"I hope you are strong enough."

And then, as fast as she had come, Jessie was gone, devoured by trunk, brush and dense woods. Her voice, her words, the wind still lingered. Cassie had been sweet. She had been pure. She wouldn't have hurt a fly, and she was gone, and Abigail Hobbs was still here, and Jesse was right. Where was the justice in that? There was no justice. No answers. No closure. Nothing but pain and grief and anger.

From the way of the house, Nicholas heard talking. Facing back, he saw _her._ Abigail Hobbs. Smiling. Healthy. Little peacoat and scarf wrapped around her neck, chatting away to another girl. Fire, total fire, stoked itself into an inferno in his chest. His fists clenched at his side, his stomach rolled and his jaw spasmed. Jessie might not have been strong enough to teach Abigail a lesson, but Nicholas was. He stalked towards the pair.

If only Nicholas had have glanced backwards, just once, to see Hemlock Potter slink back out from behind the tree she had disappeared from, carelessly flicking away the tears from her eyes as if they were cloying snowflakes annoyingly stuck to lashes, crooked grin blooming on her face as she watched him march towards Abigail Hobbs, perhaps Nicholas wouldn't be dead by dawn. But there was a thin line that separated comedy from tragedy, the broken and the beautiful, the grotesque from artistry, and Hemlock, well, she was never one to be caged.

 _Game on._

* * *

 **A.N:** So, what has it been? A week? Wait... Eight months? Really? Well... Shit! I'm so sorry for the exceedingly long wait. I really don't have an excuse for it. I have been trying to update this fic, but every time I wrote up a chapter it was quickly dumped in the bin and soon forgotten about. I sort of knotted myself into a big ball of hesitancy. And then it came to me. I was taking this way too seriously. I write for fun, and I write best, and most, when the experience is still fun to do. Somewhere along the line, this fic became a chore rather than a well loved hobby. I was worried about not meeting people's expectations, because you've all been so lovely, not including what you guys wanted, messing up, ruining characters such as the legendary Hannibal Lecter, and I just pulled away.

So, I pulled up my big girl pants, and faced my biggest fear, trying Hannibal's P.O.V, and this is what came out. Am I a hundred percent happy with it? No. Is it perfect? I highly doubt it! Is Hannibal's character trashed? Quite possibly! But this chapter was so fun to write, and that is what I was missing. Even if it's not perfect, and Hannibal is a little OC, I hope you all at least as half as much fun as I did writing it and, really, that's what fanfic is about, isn't it? Something fun to bring a smile to peoples faces.

All that said, now that I've shaken off this writers anxiety (Is that even a thing?), expect quicker updates! Thank you all to those who reviewed, followed and favourite'd, every single notification for this fic has pushed me to come back and work harder. And, while I know it is cheeky, seen as I've made you beautiful people wait for eight months for this, drop a review? It let's me know you all aren't dead and this fic isn't just floating in the void of the internet. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER FIVE: CAULDRON CAKES**

* * *

 _24 hours ago..._

Hemlock's P.O.V

Hemlock Potter took a deep inhale and came hurtling back to herself. It was startling, confusing, a complete mess. Memories were funny like that, weren't they? Sometimes, you remembered every damned detail, right down to the dust in the air and how the light would flicker off it. Other times, you remembered the broadest strokes of a conversation, the gist of feelings the speech conjured in you. Rarely, you remembered smells, or a distinct sound, perhaps a flash of green or a woman's dying scream, just shards of broken glass that slit open your palm if you tried to grasp them too tightly. Sometimes, if you tried to clasp them really snug, they chopped your fingers clean off. At that point in time, standing besides her aunt, enclosed by Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, Abigail Hobbs walking through the wooden door of her father's hunting cabin, Hemlock remembered nothing.

 _There was nothing._ Rightly, Hemlock didn't know exactly where she was, why she was here, what she had been doing, saying, for her mouth was half way to closing and Alana was smiling at her, there was a chuckle from Hannibal, and even Abigail seemed to be more at ease as she glanced over her shoulder to Hemlock as she passed the barrier into the cabin. So Hemlock must have been saying something, she must have been, and it must have been something good for once, something comforting and kind, and she must have gotten here somehow, and she had done something, she knew that, what was it, where were they, what-…

Harry was coiling in on herself. An imploding star. Another breath. Deep. In. Hold. Merlin. It burned. Everything _burned._ She couldn't hold the breath long before it came sparking back out like smoke crisping in the air. She couldn't keep a thought straight, and trying to look back, there was _nothing._ How could there be nothing? Something had to come before now, surely? That's how time worked. She didn't just appear here, with these people, speaking but not understanding what she was saying-

The last thing she remembered clearly was hearing Abigail lie. Yes. That's right. She had lied. There had been a man on the phone, who had spoken to her father, and Abigail knew him, she did, she _did_. The panic had started to come then, as if Harry was slowly being sunk into black waters and she could feel Tom's cold hands wrapping around her throat, fingers, like tree roots, piercing her skin, burying, taking a foothold, deeper, deeper-

 _Little Alice fell_

 _DoWn_

 _T_

 _h_

 _e_

 _Hole._

 _Bumped her head,_

 _And_

 _BrUiSeD hEr SoUl._

Harry kept seeing those stag heads every time she blinked, on the back of her eyelids, between the slats of the windows, in that second right before she breathed in, dusk and twilight, trapped in the in between. The memories there seemed more scraggy, broken glass, broken glass, broken glass with stag heads which weren't stags but her parents and-…

Hemlock had tried to work it through, she was sure of that. She had tried to piece it all together. The phone call had changed everything, _everything._ Merlin, she was repeating herself, an echo, fading, distorted. _Distorted._ She had tried to picture who would do this, why they would do this, what a copycat had to gain-…

Not a copycat. Something else. Something old but knew, a wedding gift, something borrowed, something blue, something… Familiar. _Tom in a different skin suit._ Hemlock didn't remember much after that. She felt rose petals and anthrax, a soft voice, strong but coaxing, who, who, who, who…

 _wHo_

 _A_

 _M_

 _I?_

And then bang, here she was, standing in the woods, at a cabin, an echo, bleeding out. She had worn the face too long this time. Too long. _Wrong face. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong rhyme._ Yet, visibly, to the outside world, nothing had changed. She was still smiling, Harry could feel the tightness of her cheek muscles, she was walking towards the door, she felt the thudding of her soles against craggy ground, she was loose limbed and easy breezy lemon squeezy and no one could see.

 _Off_

 _With_

 _T_

 _h_

 _e_

 _I_

 _r_

 _HEADS. HEADS. HEADS. HEADS? HEADS. HEADS. HEADS._

Why couldn't they see Harry was breaking apart inside, a nucleus exploding, plasma everywhere? _Everywhere._ Was she breaking? She felt whole. She felt light and airy and all things bright. A big fat moon in the night sky. But something was horribly, horribly wrong. She couldn't remember. Why couldn't she remember? And why was she acting so calm when she felt anything but?

 _We're all mad here._

 _I'm_

 _MAD. You're_

 _mAd._

"He cleaned everything."

That was Abigail speaking as she took a sweeping look around the bottom floor of the cabin. Hannibal, Will and Alana followed her into the belly of the beast, right into the middle of the room, but Hemlock could take herself no further than the edge of the door. The in between was safe. Nothing could reach her there. Her hands felt sticky. All fly traps dipped in honey. Or was it honey laced fly traps? Something… Merlin. Wearily, Hemlock looked down and saw… Nothing.

Just skin. Pale. Slightly pink. Ten fingers and two palms and fourteen phalanges. She had a bruise around her middle knuckle on her left hand, a slight scrape straight across the bump that looked like a shooting comet. She flexed her hands, in, out, in, out, stretch. Seven times. Always seven. Can't escape that number. She doesn't even know if she wants to try. Then she saw it.

It was just a slither of rust, dark brown almost, underneath her fingernails. No. She was clean. _She was._ Hemlock had always been half manic about her hands. She kept the fingernails trimmed neatly, the cuticles pushed back right to the boarder, she washed them seven times, three times a day with strong antibacterial soap until, in splotches, some of the skin was white and flaky and dry.

Sometimes she'd chew on those little patches until she bled and the soap stung and burnt and scarred. She had to, you see. Otherwise, when she touched herself, scrubbed at nose or itched thigh or ran a hand through her hair, she was reminded of Voldemort grappling her head, sending them both sailing down over the battlements of Hogwarts castle, laughing, screaming in her ear as his nails, so long, so dirty, cut her face to shreds and-

Hemlock looked around herself, but everyone was so caught up in Abigail Hobbs, in her web of deceit and lies and shitty acting, they didn't see the real spider skulking at the door, spinning and cocooning and simultaneously exploding and imploding and-. Slowly, Hemlock brought her thumb to her mouth, scratching tooth on nail, for all her worth just looking a little uncomfortable. Nothing odd. Copper. She tasted copper rust. Blood.

 _Painting the roses red. We're painting the roses red. We dare not_ _S_ _t_ _O_ _p. Or waste a d_ _R_ _o_ _P_ _. So let the paint be s_ _P_ _r_ _E_ _a_ _D_ _._

 _We're painting the roses..._

 _RED._

 _We're painting the roses red. Oh, painting the roses red, and many a tear be_ _S_ _h_ _E_ _d. Because we know, they'll cease to g_ _RoW_ _. In fact, they'll soon be_

 _D_ _EAD. DEAD? DEAD._

"He said he was afraid of germs, but, well, I guess he was just afraid of getting caught."

* * *

 _48 hours ago.._

 _I am calm. Collected. In control. It was easy. The boy, Nicholas, was running for Abigail, curses and hate spilling from his lips and I could not care. He was a tool, a blunt hammer, knock, knock, knocking, and I could not care. It was interesting to watch, in that cool, detached manner scientists often had. Put chemical X into solution B and watch the whole beaker shatter. I wonder if Tom felt this way? I think he did. I can still feel his snake scaled face over my own, mixing with the roses and anthrax, my face will shatter like the beaker, and it's become a second skin by now. I have forgotten, for so long now, where he ends and I begin. I shed that skin this day. I shed so many skins. So many faces. So many lies. Now, however, I feel almost too much like Tom that my own face, Harry, doesn't feel right. Itchy. Annoying. Fake. But I knew Tom's face wasn't my own either. I, right now, was something else. Different. New. This new face, of blood and bone and elder wood, for the first time, felt right. It felt like me. Really me. I am me. Finally._

 _And I do not care._

 _A few well placed words, a lull of magic, just a touch, and Nicholas was doing everything I wanted without me ever saying I wanted it. There had been no need for Imperio or other such dark hex's. Just my voice. For the first time in my whole life, from cupboard to battlefield, I was in complete control. I could have made Nicholas do anything, say anything, become anything._

 _If I really wanted to, I could have made him slit his own throat and sing through the last rattles of his life. I would have chosen a happy song, of course. I wasn't a complete sadist. Sweet Caroline or, if I was feeling rather humorous, Don't Stop Believing. Sirius had loved that song. If that had been what I wanted. That was control. That was strength. That was… Power. Finally, I understood the temptation that had been lurking in Tom's words all along._

" _I can make them hurt, if I want…"_

 _And I could. I could hurt them all. I could repay every insult, every bruise, every cut. Who would stop me? Who would know to stop me? I, the Chosen One. I, the Girl-Who-Lived. I, the saviour of the wizarding world. So many titles, so many faces, so many lies. Who would think little old me, of all people, would turn and bite the hand that feeds? No one. Absolutely no one. Not the Ministry. Not Aurors. Not Jack or Alana. Really, I doubt Will would even see me coming. No one would until it was too late._

 _Perhaps later. I had something more important to focus on. This copycat killer. He wanted to talk, did he? He wanted to see my face? My real one? Someone finally wanted to see the truth? Well, I was always told I talked too much for my own good. Harry Potter wouldn't be able to do what needed to be done. Tom would be too savage. But Hemlock? The person I had always denied I was? The name I could not stand because, for once, it made me look inside and see my own beast growing? The face of bone, blood and elder wood? I could do it. I could do it happily. I could do it and sing Sweet Caroline._

 _Nicholas Boyle was a tool, but not a hammer, no. He had more purpose than a hammer. Perhaps he was a Swiss army knife. First, he would unsettle Abigail enough for her to feel in danger, I would sweep in just in time, scare him off, gain some sympathy, perhaps loyalty from Abigail, and that would be a step further for her to confide in me on exactly who was on that phone. In the meantime, I would 'talk' to this copycat who felt like Tom. I would talk in the only way people like us would understand._

 _And when someone found my message, for they had to, this killer was obviously keeping an eye on the investigation, he was close by, how else would he be able to replicate Hobbs killing so well so early on, I had to have a scape-goat, didn't I? Who better than the boy who had threatened Abigail Hobbs? Crawford would be so sure Abigail had a hand in all this he would look nowhere else, Will would be so concerned with trying to prove Abigail's innocence, he wouldn't look any deeper than a not her conclusion, and without Crawford or Will to point them in the right direction, Alana and Hannibal would be boxed in. Win, Win._

 _Then, in fear of her life, Abigail would fall back more into me, into my web, my message would get across to this Tom-not-Tom, and I could begin tracking him. Will would be safe then. Safe. Easy. One. Two. Three. Four. Five birds, one stone._

 _The girl with Abigail, Marissa was it? Or Alyssa, I couldn't hear so clearly this far out, threw a stone right at Nicky-boys head and I knew it was time to slink in. Dusting up my jacket, giving a quick head-butt to a tree to make it look like I was jumped, perhaps knocked out, I take a deep breath. Show time._

" _Abigail, run!"_

 _Wow. I really do sound panicked. As I broke the tree-line, a trickle of blood running down my forehead from where the knot in the tree struck a bit too harshly on my head, seeping into my eye, turning my vision red, or was it always red? Jacket dusty, shirt torn, I must have painted a rather sorry picture. Nicky-boy ran, as expected. Alyssa-or-Marissa blinked, wide-eyed, and my shouting drew the attention of the occupants in the house as Will and Hannibal came tumbling through the door, quickly followed by a frantic Alana._

" _Oh my god, Harry?!"_

 _Will went to run after Nicky-boy into the woods, but a bit of a wobble, a jerk of falling over, grappling with his arm to stay upright, stopped Will as he tried to help me find my balance that, really, I had never lost. It wouldn't do any good for Nicky-boy to get caught so soon. No. He needed to get out, away, let Abigail think he was still out there, waiting for her, out there doing what I, in actuality, would be doing later. Alana came running over._

" _Was this that boy? Jesus, Harry, you're bleeding!"_

 _Hemlock. Not Harry. I was never going to be Harry again. Harry was weak. Harry was stupid. Harry didn't understand there was no going back no matter how much she pretended. Harry was dead. So was Tom. Only shiny, new, cold Hemlock remained. This is who I am. See me. Of course, I don't say any of this. Instead, I cry. I sob. I even shudder and quake. I play the part, as I always do._

" _He… He came out of nowhere. I told him it was private property. He kept asking where Abigail was. I knew something was wrong. I tried to shout… I did, I really did, but he was too fast and-..."_

 _Alana pulled me away from Will, wrapping her thin arms around me. I thought of breaking them. Bending them right over my knee until I heard the satisfying crack of bone and tendon. Instead, I cling to her, as if I am a babe seeking the shelter of their mother. Alana hummed in my ear and ran a hand through my hair and I had to fight down the urge to crush her voice box._

" _You're safe. I'm here. I'm here."_

 _I hid the chuckle underneath a sniffle._

" _Abigail, is she? I tried… But he was fast and I… I tried..."_

 _Alana squeezed me tighter. From over her shoulder, I can see Abigail looking at me. There is a softness to her eye. Good._

" _I'm okay… Thank you, Harry. I don't know what he would have… Thank you."_

 _The girl beside her, Alyssa-Marissa, however, is frowning. Well… That just wouldn't do. Looks like I found my blank canvas. Hannibal cut in._

" _I'll call an ambulance. She might have a concussion."_

 _Will is stumbling towards the woods. It would do no good. Nicky-boy would be long gone by now._

" _I'll call the FBI and get a group down here. He might still be in the woods. Hold tight, Harry."_

 _They won't find him until it was too late. Nicky-boy wouldn't be captured, just like I wouldn't be caught. I was new, clean, precise._

 _I wouldn't be caught._

* * *

 _24 hours ago…_

Will questioned Abigail as Harry came rushing back to herself once more. No. No. No. That… That wasn't real. That hadn't been her. It couldn't have been. Harry was a good person. _She was_. Yes, sometimes she was misguided, and lately she was a bit apathetic, and things were more grey than black and white, but she was a good person. _Please._ She was. She was?

"No one ever came here with your dad? Except you?"

But she wasn't. Harry wasn't a good person and she hadn't been one for a long time. Dammit, evidently, she was likely not sane. Had she ever? She felt too much enjoyment from this work, the great hunt. And she wanted more. She always wanted more. More death. More blood. More games. More. More. More. She could say this had all been for Will, she could lie like that, Harry could. But it wasn't. Not really. This had been about her. It always was.

Harry was self-centred, selfish and greedy that way. In part, no doubt, it was about Will's safety. Harry knew that. She really did want to see him out of harms way. Nevertheless, she could have easily done that by informing him he was the true target of the Tom-not-Tom. Instead, here she was, setting up a chessboard, placing people, lives, as pawns, waiting for her turn to move. Or had she had her turn? She couldn't remember.

Abigail shook her pretty little head. Harry's hand slithered out her mouth, the taste of copper still crusting on her gums, as she felt along her hairline. She winced. There was a gash there, hidden by her hair, which, oddly, was down for once.

"He made everything by himself. Glue. Butter. He sold the pelts on Ebay or in town. He-… He made pillows. No parts went to waste. Otherwise it was murder."

* * *

 _41 hours ago…_

 _I was calm. Collected. In control. I had given my statement to the small group of FBI agents who had come to the Hobbs residence, as a medic stitched my head back together. Apparently, I had hit it harder than I thought. Fifteen stitches. Now that, ladies and gentlemen, was commitment to acting. No one suspected me. No one even thought of questioning me deeper than; how tall was he? What colour was his hair? Did you see if he had any weapons?_

 _In fact, the acting agent who had taken the vanguard in the questioning had smiled at me, patted my shoulder kindly, told me how brave I was. He assured me I was safe, that his team would find this man and put him away, that I had nothing to fear. Could no one see?_

 _Alana had smiled at me and I thought of strapping her to a dentist chair, pulling her white teeth out with dirty pliers until there was only gum and blood. How pretty would she be then? I might even wear them as a necklace. I only held her hand tighter and smiled back, all coy and shy and hurt, in the back of the ambulance._

 _Once we had departed for the evening, setting up shop in a motel to get some well earned rest, it was only a matter of waiting. Before one am, I was out, Alana's car keys safely in my pocket, sat nav ready to go, driving down the long road, with me, a transfigured pillow, laying back in my motel room to provide an Alibi. Alana normally checked in at three, she'd peep her head around the door crack, see my black curls slumbering away, she might even smile at the peaceful face I had spelled, and well, how could someone be in two places at once?_

 _Pulling up onto the side of the road, surrounded by nauseating peppy little happy homes of well cut lawns, merry white fences and, Merlin forbid, welcome matt's with cheesy slogans, I cut the cars engine and double check the sat nav. Marissa Schurr, nineteen, student. She had a pretty year-book photo, and she had been pretty easy to find. She lived close to Abigail's home, they went to the same school, and, therefore, lived close to the hunting cabin we, Will, Me, Alana, Abigail and Hannibal, would be visiting tomorrow in hopes of jogging Abigail's memories. Perfect._

 _I look out and over to the house. The front bedroom light is on. I can see Marissa through it, cosy in her pyjama's, sitting on the window sill without a care in the world, on the phone, laughing, twirling her black hair around her delicate little finger. I wonder, in another life, if that could have been me. Another me, where my biggest worry was a failed test, perhaps split ends, or, fucking hell, a chipped fingernail. Would I have still ended up right here? Waiting? Readying to pounce?_

 _I think so. I was always, always, going to come right to this moment. I could lie. Would you like that? I could tell you I was hesitating by watching Marissa on the phone. I could tell you that guilt, real guilt that tasted salty and briny was twisting my guts up real good and I was all muddled and confused and 'unbalanced' and not entirely myself, and please, won't you help me? Little me? I never meant to hurt anyone, really! I was just so befuddled and how could I, Harry, do such a thing if I was in my right mind? Or, perhaps, I could play on my own 'trauma'. The loss of my mummy pushed me to it. Uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia was nasty and so, I had to be nasty back. Tom made me do it. You hear that? Tom made me do it! But, yes, I could lie. Lies were prettier than the truth, as pretty as Marissa and as pretty as Alana's teeth, and as pretty as my broken bloody mind._

 _So, if you want to, believe the lie. I wouldn't blame you. I've believed it myself for so long. But for those who wanted the truth, who could look into the darkness and understand, when you do, it looks right back into you, to your very core, know this. I do not care. It was like scribbling out a shopping list. Milk. Eggs. Bread. Sugar. Coffee. Soup. Flour. Instead, as I sit in this car and watch, my shopping list was something else. Apparate. Snap. Grab. Apparate. Trunk. Drive. Shiny cogs in a run down machine. And like all shopping lists, sometimes, you wonder about replacing an item for something else that tickled your fancy. Snap? Why not Crucio? Confringo? A quick Avada? And then you wonder if you have forgotten something. Bleach? Scourgify. Gloves? Check. Notice-me-not charm? Ready and locked. Tom's wand? Already in hand._

 _See? I was not getting any true enjoyment out of this, as much as you would writing a shopping list. I was detached, going through the motions, clinical even. However, there was a certain rush. The kind you get when you're on a roller-coaster, the first big climb up and the machine would crank, crank, crank and then stall right at the precipice and you could look down and, any second now, you know it was about to drop. That's when the real fun came. Or, I could be lying about that and being truthful about the 'lie'. I could be lying about everything. Perhaps even I don't know the truth. Subjectivity and all that jazz._

 _Hesitating or planning, it does not matter in the end. I sit here, watching. Did Tom watch Lily and James through Godric Hollow's windows? Did he see my mother making tea? My father shaving in the bathroom? Them singing me to sleep as they laid me down in the nursery for the last time? Was it a shopping list for him, or a roller-coaster? Am I stuck? Doomed to repeat my worst memories? Are we all stuck? Locked in? Trapped in a cycle of rinse and repeat? If so, what was to come, what I was about to do…_

 _It wasn't murder. Not really. I was just repeating what I had been taught. A Parrot. Squawk, squawk, squawk. When things got tough, people got dead. I had learned that one from an early age. This death had a purpose. Like Lily's. Like James's. And if a death had a purpose outside of death, well, it wasn't murder, was it? You can't blame a parrot for swearing when that was all it had heard in its entire life. I chuckle. Perhaps I was hesitating. Perhaps I was planning. Perhaps I was lying about everything. Perhaps I had really smacked my head so hard I had turned my brain to mush._

 _I step out of the car and shut the door with a muted thud. With a crack of air splitting, lightning in a plastic bottle, I am gone. This wasn't murder. It had purpose._

* * *

 _24 hours ago..._

Abigail was frozen in place for a long time, and it was the sound of her inhale, shaky, dashed, notched, that masked Harry's own as she came back with a blink, her hand falling away from the wound on her head. Harry wouldn't say she felt sick, exactly, even if she could feel bile rising in the back of her throat. She felt more… Torn. Ripped. Stuck in two places at once. There, in her memories that were slowly trickling back, and here, in this room, nothing but a watcher by the door. No one was looking at her still. Why was no one looking at her? Was she not here? Was this imaginary? What was real and what wasn't? Did she die in the battle of Hogwarts and this, whatever the fuck this was, was the conjuring of the last atoms of oxygen floating in her mushed, meshed brain?

"He was feeding them to us, wasn't he?"

No. This was real. Monstrously, tortuously real. Before Will could answer Abigail, Hannibal was speaking.

"It is very likely."

Abigail looked distraught. Harry… Harry only watched. She wasn't so panicked any more. There was no dread, or fear, or loathing or terror. Just a sense of creeping apathy. Creeping like vines over a towering wall. What was done was done, and Harry couldn't remember. But she was, oh, she was, and what she was remembering… It was as if someone had reached right into the cortex of her brain, right into the juicy bobbly part and flipped a switch. She knew what was coming. She knew and she could do nothing to stop it.

"Before he cut my throat, he told me he killed those girls so he wouldn't have to kill me."

* * *

 _40 hours ago…_

 _I am calm. Collected. In control. I have my arm wrapped around her neck, squeezing, the palm wrapped around until it cupped over her ear, craning her neck more over the crux of my elbow. My other hand is over her mouth, pressing her nose until it nearly broke as her mouth gnashed and ground under the pressure. There was no point in this. None what-so-ever. I had cast the silencing charm as soon as I apparated in. All her struggling, all her kicking and yelling and clawing at my arm, no point. No point. Still, it was the least I could do for her, I think. To allow her to believe, in her last moments, she had given her all. She had really fought tooth and nail and had been so close, so fucking close to surviving. There was to be pride in that. I knew that because I, too, once had been like this girl, fighting so hard, for so long, only to realize it was all for nothing. I had to die. Marissa had to die too._

 _Rinse and repeat, Hemlock ol' girl. We're nearly done._

 _In the end, I had gone for snap. I liked working with my hands. There was something special about it. Something you couldn't gain with magic, with a simple flick of the wrist and point of a wand and flash of a colour. It made it more real. More personal. Intimate. Idle hands are the devils playthings. That's what aunt Petunia used to say over her beak nose. I don't know whether she meant it to mean anything remotely like this, of what I was doing right now, but, well, here we are. Perhaps my idle hands were possessed. Perhaps the devil really was in my fingertips, hidden between pinky and thumb. Perhaps he had been there all along and Petunia, with her paisley print dresses, bony hands, beak nose and beady little black eyes had saw it all from the very get go._

 _Idle hands are the devils playthings Hemlock! Get to work! Now! Or to the cupboard with you! No food for a week! Don't make me get Vernon! You know how his belt feels, don't you! Do you want the belt? Do you? Do you? Idle hands are the devils playthings Hemlock!_

 _Well, look at me now aunt Petunia. Is this what you wanted? Is it? Her neck will be next. I'd use her favourite pearl necklace, the one she made me polish and shine until my idle hands became numb and bent wrong. Or perhaps the sewing kit. The one she forced me to use until the pads of my fingers were littered with pinpricks because, fuck, what six year old knows how to sew?_

 _The girls struggling was waning now. Growing weak. With a twist of my arm, a push of my hand, her neck twisted fascinatingly._

 _Snap._

 _She flopped in my arms. I dropped her to the pink carpet. I watched. I waited. I watched. I waited. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Here comes the melted clock faces all over again. No guilt came. No remorse. No yapping conscience. I even laughed. See that Albus? I am laughing. A girls dead at my feat, her parents are downstairs, gobbling up takeaway, watching some shitty sitcom on a flat screen, and I am laughing. I can't stop laughing, in fact._

 _It's that terrible sort of laughter. Hysteric almost. The kind you have to double over to keep your sides from splitting. Huh. Like the girls neck had split when a piece of bone had broken free. Ripe fruit sagging, flies buzzing, and I am laughing. A girls dead and I am laughing. She's dead and her neck is at a right angle, she's bleeding, and I can't stop laughing. I think Tom is laughing with me. I like that. I like that very much._

 _Eventually, I do stop laughing. When the blood stops coming. When it's just a corpse, no more fight. When it gets boring. Still, there is no guilt. No remorse. No conscience. Morality has fled me like the girls blood had fled her still body. I set to work then. I am, after all, on a time restraint._

 _I clean with a few spells, I leave no trace, no mark, nothing. I am meticulous, if anything. I am clean. I heave her body up into my arms. It's cold. Lifeless. Her arm is getting stiff. I didn't know rigor mortis set in so fast. Did you, Tom? Of course you did. I shouldn't have asked. Or had I been laughing for hours? Debatable. Time means very little to me here, right now. I only know this was needed. I needed to do this. I had to. It was only a matter of time. I have to get the Tom-not-Tom. I have to. If I didn't, he would strike first because I had idle hands. If I don't get the Tom-not-Tom, I would have to get someone. I have to. Will. Alana. Abigail. Hannibal. Molly. Hermione. Ron. No one would be safe._

 _I killed a girl today, and I can't stop laughing because, if I had not, it would have been someone else, somewhere else, sometime later. I was always coming to this. I know that now. Best it was Marissa, so her death could work towards something greater, a better hunt, a chase for the Tom-not-Tom. Yes. Better her. Do you see me Tom? I killed an innocent girl today, and I can't stop laughing. I hope you're proud. I hope you burn in hell you bastard. With a crack, we're gone, the girl and me, me and the corpse, and there is nothing but an empty, silent, clean room._

* * *

 _24 hours ago..._

This cabin room was clean. Too clean. Scored and polished and clean. Coming back from this snippet, this shard of glass was easier. Too easy. Blink and it was gone. Not gone. It was still in there, in Hemlock's mind, but she wasn't there _there._ Honestly, she didn't know whether she wanted to know more, or if she should walk away from this cabin, run as far as her feet can carry her, and if she ran far enough, perhaps those broken glass shards couldn't reach her. Hemlock didn't run, in the end. She was never one to. Alana was smiling softly, edging towards a crying Abigail and Hemlock…

Merlin. Hemlock couldn't bring herself to care. Not fully. She only found it funny. Exceedingly funny. There Abigail was, with her fake tears, and fake sorrow, and fake, fake, fake and Alana was eating it up, so gentle, so soft, offering any comfort she could to the young girl.

"You're not responsible for _anything_ your father did, Abigail."

That was a lie, wasn't it? Everything about this place, these people, this bloody scenario was a lie. Abigail broke, really broke, the pitch in her voice changed, the notch in her breathing became uneven, and, really, Hemlock thought this might be the first truth, her own truth, she had said in a very long time.

"If he would have just killed me, none of those other girls would be dead."

If Garret Jacob Hobbs had have killed Abigail, none of those girls would be dead. Will wouldn't be breaking apart. This Tom-not-Tom would not be lurking right in their rose garden. Hemlock wouldn't be here, standing in this very spot either. She wouldn't be slowly piecing together a shattered mirror of a forgotten night. There wouldn't be blood underneath her fingernails. There would be no crawling realisation. And, worst of all, Hemlock might have cared. For, right now, as back then, she couldn't care. The switch had been flipped and the light had gone out, and Hemlock knew what was coming and she couldn't care enough to deny it, to fight it, to pretend. _She couldn't care._

"We don't know that. You're father-"

Alana's placating words were interrupted, rather rudely, by something dripping off the ceiling, something dark and red, splattering on Abigail's forehead. The girl startled. Even before she reached up, shakily wiping it off, Hemlock knew what it was. She knew that thickness, that glimmer, the shimmer it held, all to well. _Blood._ One by one, like a flock of sheep, everybody turned their gazes up to the ceiling, finally spotting the patch of blood seeping through the old, polished, previously clean wood.

Hemlock wanted to laugh.

* * *

 _36 hours ago…_

 _I am calm. Collected. I am in control. I'm in an empty warehouse. No one will find me here. No one will look. By the time I'm done, there, like Marissa's bedroom, will be nothing to see. I like that. Perhaps some steel workers will wander in one day, maybe even tomorrow morning, cross this very table I am standing at, maybe even place their tool boxes on this table and they will never know that, just hours earlier, there was a dead body on it. Would they laugh too? Unlikely._

 _Yet, at the moment, the table and warehouse wasn't empty. I'd stripped the girl off, but left her knickers on. I wasn't a complete monster. It's cold here, very cold, there is no heating, no sun, nothing. I like it. Marissa is cold too. Cold and stiff and I have to work fast. Still, you can't rush perfection. A cut here. A stitch there, thanks aunt Petunia, those sewing tasks actually paid out. This needed to make a statement. It needed to draw attention._

 _Do you see me?_

 _There's blood on my hands. A lot of blood. Turns out bodies were filled with the sticky stuff. People were just bags of blood and flesh and bone. This blood is cold. It's getting lumpy. Coagulating. Browning. It reeks too. What's this? Liver? Kidney? I don't fucking know. I haven't studied anatomy. However, I do know a pair of lungs when I see one. That's what I need. Cassie had no lungs. I need the Tom-not-Tom to know I see him. I understand. There's a loud hiss at my feet. I look down at the cage, elbow deep in ribcage and guts. I hiss back. The snake stills under my order. Good. He had his part to play too. Just like the smaller snake, nothing but a grass creeper, dead, at the side of the table._

 _I find the lungs and I vanish them after I cut a bit free and place it underneath Marissa's swelling tongue. The Tom-not-Tom hadn't vanished Cassie's lungs. I know that. I'm not going for a replica. I just want him to know I see him. I see him and I'm coming. Knowing Garret Jacob Hobbs, knowing the Tom-not-Tom knew him too, I think I know what he did to the missing lungs. I wonder if he used salt or pepper, or perhaps vinegar? Doesn't matter. This isn't a bloody fish and chip shop. I pull back a step, I take a sweeping look. The face was going to be difficult. So was the skull. But this was my message. Mine. I needed to say it in my own way. I have to. What did Will keep saying?_

 _This is my design._

 _I bend down, I open the cage, I pick the python up. You see? Me. All me. This is all me. Not Tom. Not Albus. Not anybody. Me. Hemlock._

" _In you go."_

* * *

 _24 hours ago…_

Will was the first to climb the stairs up to the top level of the cabin. Almost in a trance, knowing, painfully knowing, what was up there, what was coming, what she was about to see and feel and-… Hemlock followed behind him. She could hear her own voice echoing in her head, wrapped in parseltongue, poison, _In you go,_ and step by step, in she went. Into the darkness. Will reached the top before Hemlock did, and she only watched as he disappeared into the dark, around the corner, onto the top landing. She may not have been able to see him, but she heard his voice, likely from the mobile he had pulled from his jacket on the way up, drifting down to her.

"We need ERT at the Hobbs cabin."

* * *

 _33 hours ago.._

 _I'm humming as I drive Alana's car up the winding road in the dead of night, deeper into the woods. I realise I've been humming since the warehouse. I glance over to the file sprawled open on the passenger seat, papers scattered about. Just another thing I had nabbed from Alana. Then again, that wasn't the worst I had done tonight, was it? I double check the Hobbs cabin address. Yes. I'm on the right track. Just up this road. Around the bend. I remember what I am humming._

 _Paint the roses red._

 _An old Disney song from Alice in Wonderland. Merlin, I hate that film. I hate that song. I hate it all. Dudley had loved it. He had watched it so much he had worn out the tape until aunt Petunia had to go dashing to the shop to pick up another copy so the fat fucker would stop screaming his chubby little lungs out. I don't know why he liked it so much. Perhaps because I hated it. He used to blast it. Turn the volume to max. He would put the portable TV right outside my cupboard door and he would blast that Merlin damned film right through the wood until I felt like pulling my hair out by the root. Or ripping off my own ears. I hated that song most, and he knew that. He would let it play through, rewind, and it would start all over again, and I could do jack fucking shit because I didn't know about magic, not yet, and I was locked in a dingy bloody cupboard._

 _Sometimes, I would hear Dudley laughing over the crooning cards. There was no Dudley chortles tonight though, not over my humming. There was no Tom either. No Albus. No Bellatrix. No Deatheaters. No Sirius or Remus. It was just me. Me and my song. Painting the roses red. I pull up to the cabin. I look into the side mirror of the car. I see myself. Not Tom. Me. I wink at my reflection. It winks back. I tidy up the file, I clean the car, I'll scourgify it later, to remove any trace. I am clean. Calm. Collected. In control._

 _I make my way to the back of the boot, I have to place Tom's wand between my teeth so I can lift the trunk, it tastes like blood and ash, and then I look down and there it is. If I have timed this right, I have two hours to set the stage, another three to get back to motel, and, I might just have a full nights sleep too. I can't sleep yet. No rest for the wicked. I have work to do. Soon, though. Soon._

* * *

 _24 hours ago…_

There was just seven stairs left to the top, just seven, and yet, Hemlock felt like she was moving through sludge, so slow, so fucking slow. Each creak of the wood brought back something else. A smell. Rusty blood, old, solidifying. A sound. The crack of a shoulder joint as an antler, sawn and cropped to spike, was hammered through. A thought. _This is me._ A thousand creaks, and a thousand sounds, and a thousand smells and a thousand thoughts. They were there, every single one of them, washing over her. _Cleansing her_.

Hemlock liked them. She liked them very much. She thought this is what a baptism felt like. She wasn't sure if that made her a monster, perhaps she had been one all along, a wolf in sheep's wool, or if she was just deranged, everybody else would like that one, but they didn't frighten her any more. She welcomed them. Opened her arms and let them in. Welcomed them home.

Abigail pushed passed her, shoulder hitting shoulder, as she dashed up the stairs. She skittered around the corner and for a long moment, a very long moment, there was only silence. Then her scream came.

"Marissa!"

Lastly, Hemlock made it to the top of the stairs, she turned the corner, and she saw the body. She wasn't surprised. She'd seen this coming. If she was honest, and she rarely was these days, if ever, she had seen this coming for years now.

* * *

 _31 hours ago..._

 _I am calm. Collected. In control. With the last stitch in place, I take a step back and look at my work. I wonder what Will would think of it when he sees it. I need Will to see it. If Will sees it, the Tom-not-Tom will too. I don't rightly know how I know that, but I do. I think, as well, I simply want Will to see it. I want to know what he'll draw from it. Will he see me? Or something else? Tom? No. He would see me because this, all of it, was all me. No one else. For once in my life, this was my choice, my action, my words, my art._

 _I was flirting with danger with this one. I know that. I had put so much of myself into it, drew my name, face, everything that made me, me, right into the flesh and Will, brilliant, brilliant Will will see it. He has to. People like us see too much and we see everything. In the dark cold light of the cabin, it almost looked beautiful._

 _Marissa is standing, antlers driven through shoulder blades to keep her standing tall against the wall. Her head is sliced clean off, but the cut had been sharp. It is now resting in her hands, that pretty head, cradled in palm, mouth wide open, the smaller snake's head coiling out from blue lips, it too frozen in death with its fangs out and glinting as if it was going to strike. If I squinted and turned my head to the left, in the low light, it looked like my own head. On her small brow is a crown of thorns. On her shoulders lay sewed the Stag head, skinned, skeletal, antlers nearly touching the low hanging, sloping roof. My family symbol once again mine. I told you I was selfish._

 _The roses were a particular nice touch, if I say so myself. White, clean, so pure, I had dipped them in her own blood, painted them red, just as those cards did, and I had laced them through the antlers, through the gaping sockets where eyes should be. It has ran a little, in narrow rivets, down the antlers, over bone, down breasts and the dip of her stomach. There is a long gash down her body, right down the centre, I had made sure to measure it, from collar bone to pubic. It is stitched lovingly, carefully, real gold thread too, and, in the dim lighting, I thought I saw the soft skin of her stomach wriggle and writhe._

 _My own Jack in the box. Crawford would like that one. I sure did. I hope I am there when either the python tried to break free, or when the coroners cut her open, retracing my, you hear that? MY first cut, to take a gander. Boo! Gotcha. On her left breast, right over the unbeating heart, was something I couldn't leave out. Will would not understand it. No one would. Not even the Tom-not-Tom. But, it had to be there. Just as I had to do this. A set of cuts. A triangle, a circle, a line. Compressed. Clean. Me._

 _I could not feel Tom's face over mine any more. There was no scales. No even a hint. I could not hear him whispering hymns in my ears. I could not see him in the shadows, between the cracks of the floorboards, in the stars, in door-frames, corners or beneath furniture, red eyes watching me, always watching me. My Tom was gone now. Truly gone. This is my goodbye. Long over due. Drawn out. Painful. Bloody. The only goodbye I knew. The only type we deserved. Written in flesh, drawn in blood and sang in death. I hate you. I love you. I can't stand your memory. I miss you. Fucking burn you bastard. And let me burn with you._

 _But I was here. Hemlock was here. I was finally free. Free. Merlin, I was free. Do you hear that Albus? Do you see that Petunia? Do you feel that Bellatrix? Me, I survived. I won. I am free. This is me, who I am. If the Tom-not-Tom wanted to talk, here I was. I am calm. Collected. In control. Finally, I can sleep. Finally, I wear my own face. Finally, I see._

 _Do you see too?_

 _It was all coming to this. I was coming to this. Everything was coming to this. Eyes wide open. I see. You see. We all see. For when you look into the darkness, really look in, you take some of it back with you and it never leaves. It's like a seed. You plant it inside. Deep inside. Every nasty thought, every nightmare, every curse and slither of hate feeds it. It grows. It grows tall. It shadows everything else. It begins to flower. The poison pollen seeps out, through your pores, outwards, into the air, into other people, infecting and taking. It's beautiful. A beast all of your own. No one else', for it was you, bits of yourself, the darkest little faces, that fed it into being. Nothing happened. Nothing changed. There was no revelation. I am me._

 _I am Hemlock Potter. I am free. I am in control. This is me. _

_I SEE YOU._

* * *

 _24 hours ago…_

Hemlock Potter felt calm. She felt collected. She felt in control. It, the body, Marissa, was exactly as she remembered, red roses, antlers, cradled head, grass snake tongue and all. It was exactly right, even down to the last stitch on her bodies incision, sitting a little wonky. Oh, how that had bothered her, that wonky last golden stitch. But she had no time to fix it last night. No time at all. There wasn't anything like time any more.

In the cold light of day, it was even more beautiful, and even more grotesque. Hemlock was enraptured. Captivated. Completely consumed. She could see clearly now. So clearly. For, this, staring at it, she finally saw herself, real Hemlock, mirrored back. She saw there was no real ending. This was only the beginning. _Come out and play._

Alana was dragging a sobbing Abigail away and down the stairs. Will was close to Marissa, or what remained of her, almost as entranced as Hemlock, and there was a creak behind her, a cut in the air, as Hannibal Lecter finally joined them. She wanted to laugh, but she knew if she started she wouldn't be able to stop. Hemlock wondered if they see. Really see. _Do you see?_

Hemlock does. She's Hemlock Potter. She's free. She's in control. This, the mangled body of Marissa Schurr, is her. Just her. Once again, she feels it wash over her, salt water in a weeping wound, and she savours the feelings.

Clean. Calm. Collected. Control.

* * *

 **NEXT COUPLE OF CHAPTERS:** We finally get back to the Freddie scene either the end of next chapter or the one after that, likely the latter. However, this chapter needed to go here, for obvious reasons, as we're not touching on Hemlock's P.O.V for a while. And I mean for a long while. However, we do delve back into Will and Hannibal, so I hope you look forward to it!

* * *

 **NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER:**

This is the largest chapter yet, pulling in at 8.8K before authors note. However, seen as what takes place, well, takes place, it deserved it. Saying that, things do pick up speed from here on out. Think of this and the previous chapters as Part One, and we're moving into part two now, which, like the roller-coaster, is the big drop, loop-de-loops and swerves. I also can't stress enough that this fic is a strong M, and now, especially now, we are moving into some very dark territory. So, either turn back while you can, or get your night vision goggles out, cause we about to go full black-out mode on this!

This is actually the scene that started this whole fic. I was watching Hannibal one day, and I remember watching Will as he finds Marissa in the cabin and I just thought, what if that was Harry's murder? (I had only just finished re-reading The Chamber of Secrets that morning) Of course, this birthed more questions, like why would Harry kill? How would he kill? What would push him to do so? How would he end up right there, in the cabin? And well, everything was sort of leading up to this very point. This is it folks. The fall.

Writing it out was real fun. This is the first time I've ever, and I mean ever, wrote in first person and present tense. But I felt it was necessary. I really wanted the reader to be right there, with Hemlock, almost inside her mind. I wanted it to feel like the reader was sitting down with Hemlock, in an interrogation and this, sort of, is her confession. I wanted it to flow like a conversation. First person seemed a good way to get that intimate/confession feeling.

It also let me begin forming Hemlock's distinct voice, which first person allows you to do. There's no barriers from third person and past tense, because third person makes it feel like a story being told, and I wanted this to feel real, very, very real and intimate. I knew, pretty much, from the get go that I wanted it to be unreliable. She's a very unstable character. As she points out herself, she could be lying about everything. I wanted that to come through, for there to be an underlying sense of caution and scepticism. Hemlock, herself, doesn't know what's real and what's not, and I wanted the reader to get a sense of that too, what is real and what's a lie? How far can we trust anything Hemlock says?

I also wanted it to feel authentic. So, unlike usual, where I write something out sentence by sentence and pick through it, changing and polishing it, I simply sat down and started typing and didn't stop until I was finished. I've also refused to go back through it. It's not as pretty as it normally is, or put together, and there might be a million spelling and grammar mistakes, but I think that only adds to the lucidity of it. It's jarring, there's bits where she jolts from one thing to another and then back, she repeats herself and contradicts nearly everything she says, sometimes within a sentence or two, and I think it only adds to how very unstable she is.

I don't know whether I will be doing first person again, not in this fic, but I think this was the perfect place and time for it. And I hope you guys liked it. I'm actually really proud of this chapter, and I think, maybe, this is my favourite one so far just because how tangled, jolting and warped it is. It was also the most fun to write.

P.S: the synopsis of this story is a quote from Alice in Wonderland, so credit goes there, and if you want a song recommendation for this chapter, I would highly recommend Her Name Is Alice, by Shinedown. I drew deep inspiration from that song, and there's even a quote chucked in for good measure. Do you guys have any songs that you think fit this fic? If so, give me a heads up! Music always works wonders for inspiration.

* * *

 **A huge thank you to everyone!** Silent readers, followers, favourite-ers, reviewers, if I could, I would give you all a hug, but I'm afraid my thanks will have to do.

 **As always, please drop a review if you have a moment, they keep the muses chattering.**


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER SIX: FIZZING WHIZZBEES**

* * *

 _6 hours ago…_

Will Graham's P.O.V

"Do you think she knew the guy down by the stream?"

Will asked as he stared up at the hooded sockets of the stag skull, eyes following the trail of blood from the stained roses masquerading as eyeballs, as the rivet dribbled down the small crack where two bone plates were fused by age. In the blink of his eye, hidden between the flutter of lashes, Will saw a blackened field, burnt and cast to desolation, ash and bone shards scattering the very ground to hilly inclines and dips. A stallion, a beast of a horse, with hair as red as blood, mane of fire sparking in the wasteland of air, so incandescent, twisting and dancing up and away, stood in the very centre, smoke trailing from its skinned face as it huffed and stomped it's front hoof. By the time his eyes opened, the image was gone, replaced back with the stag and roses. Nevertheless, Will held onto that image, clinched it tight and fastened it down, as Hannibal Lecter's voice drifted over from his side.

"Somebody's brother?"

Will shook his head. The stallion, as with the Ravenstag, was not a simple meander of his imagination. Will did not have the luxury of such faineant propensity. This, as with the Ravenstag, with its bony white face stripped of skin and muscle and tendon, mane of sparking and spitting fire, and bloody coat of crimson blood, was his first look, his first true glimpse, at this killer.

"Not somebody. Abigail said he asked if she helped her dad while he took his sisters lungs while she was alive."

Hannibal hummed beside him.

"The young woman on the stags head."

Will scratched at his beard.

"Cassie Boyle had a brother. Nicholas. But Garret Jacob Hobbs didn't kill Cassie Boyle."

The War Horse and the Ravenstag, what a pretty pair they made. Monstrous. Dreadful. All things wrong in humanity malformed into reality through his own sick mind. In the back of Will's head, he heard the howling neigh of the War Horse, felt the brush of a raven's feather on the back of his neck, and there, right there, heard the stomping of hooves as the beasts threatened to run. Around they would go, circling him, circling each other, ellipse, encompassing. Will didn't know what it all meant just yet, not the War Horse, or the dance it and the Ravenstag was beginning, but he knew discernment would come later, after he had time to put together the jigsaw, to connect the little clues and images flashing in his minds eye.

"I know. Garret Jacob Hobbs would have honoured every part of her."

The creaking of the steps alerted Will to the arrival of a new person. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was, as Jack Crawford came sweeping around the corner in his thick coat, face scrunched tight by frown and down turned lip, flinty as he was angry.

"You brought Abigail Hobbs back to Minnesota to find out if she was involved in her fathers murders and another girl dies. You said this copycat was an intelligent psychopath, Will. That there would be no traceable motive. No pattern. That's two girls from the same area, two girls who have links to both Garret Jacob Hobbs and Abigail Hobbs. Both times, deer have been incorporated into the killing. You said, Will, he wouldn't kill again this way. You said."

Ah. The Ravenstag. Will had first began to see it, in all its smoky beauty, right after he had first saw Cassie Boyle's crime scene. To him, in his mind, that was the copycat. Sleek. Refined. Astute. _Dark._ And even though he saw it now, malingering in his senses, he too saw and felt this bloodied ablaze War Horse. Which, to Will, could only mean on thing. They were two removed identities. This War Horse was chaotic. Vulgar. Unabashed by its own horrid state, proud in it nearly, scarred and bloodied. Just as astute but in a raw way, filled with anger and startling energy. _A star in supernova_. It could mean only one thing if he was seeing two at the same time.

"This is not the copycat."

In another blink, he was back on that barren field of wanton devastation, the War Horse on one side, the Ravenstag on the other. The War Horse was flicking its main, casting flame up high, crowning itself in its own blinding wrath, legs kicking and prancing on bone as its slick crimson coat flexed over mangled muscle. The Ravenstag bowed, bucking its back, hooves steadying, readying. Any second now, they would charge. Will knew it. He could _feel_ it. Back in the attic of the Hobbs hunting cabin, Jack looked Will dead in the eye.

"Do not stand there and tell me that, Will."

Given, it would be what no one wanted to hear, least of all Will. His mind was already full and leaking from so many other creations, still preoccupied by the apparition of Garret Jacob Hobbs, but, sadly, it was the truth. The Ravenstag and the War Horse. Separate. Perverse. Alive. Why he was seeing the two, together at that, all but as if they were preparing to fight, Will did not know just yet. There _was_ a connection there, he knew that, but how deep and what shade that connection took was just, barely, out of his reach.

"It is not the copycat, Jack."

Jack's eyes glinted like the War Horse's burning mane as he rolled his jaw, still looking at Will straight on. Never one to be good at maintaining eye contact, there was so much more to see without the distraction of eyes, after all, Will found his own gaze breaking away like a chip from a melting glacier, sinking to the deep, over to the corpse of Marissa Schurr, back to the bloody roses in the stag's skull. Still, as far as Will sank, down and down and down, Jack's ineffaceable voice reached him.

"So, what? There's another killer? In the same area? Three serial killers operating in the same damn area, with similar modes of operandi, in the same fucking year?"

Will sighed deeply.

"No. They're completely different. Garret Jacob Hobbs honoured his victims. He consumed them so, forever, they could be a part of him. The copycat humiliated Cassie Boyle. She was nothing but a piglet to butcher and showcase."

Jack pressed in at his shoulder, cocking his brow.

"And this one?"

 _And this one._ As if it could be so simple. Sometimes Will didn't understand what he saw, perhaps that was why his imagination was so terrifying. He didn't have full control or perception of it, but he usually got there in the end. It was about interpretation, you see. Will saw, and Will interpreted. Yet, interpretation took time, effort, things Jack Crawford's lack of patience often beleaguered. Nevertheless, at least now he was considering there was another one. That was one step forward of many. Will shook his head until he could feel his curls whipping the skin of his forehead. He was being too harsh.

Jack was shrewd. He knew when to push and when to step back, when to listen and when to question. He was a leader through and through. Still, this murderer, this War Horse, made Will feel… premeditated Chaotic, disciplined enraged, little pockets of energy bursting under his skin like blisters and boils, bubble wrap filled with puss, contrarily anachronous and restrained. This person, this killer, they were invasive. Overriding. Nigh magnetic. They invaded, seeped in from any tiny crack and spread like a virus, taking one cell at a time.

"This is a proclamation."

There was a long draw of silence as those around him took in his answer that, really, was no answer at all. Finally, Jack pushed on.

"A _proclamation_? Care to elaborate on that?"

Elaborate? How could Will elaborate in any way others would understand? Will saw, Will interpreted and then he had to morph that into something recognizable to those outside his own mind. Sometimes it felt like those around him were blind and he was tasked with the insurmountable labour of describing what colour smelt like.

"They're sending a message. I am here. This is me. I see you. Check Marissa Schurr's car insurance policy."

Jack's rebuff was instant.

"Why?"

Finally, magically, thankfully, Will could drag his gaze away from those bloodstained roses housed in stag skull. Magnetic. Simply magnetic. But that was the test, Will knew. This killer wanted him, or any who saw this, to be enraptured, taken in by the shiny, over exaggerated showmanship which concealed the true hints.

 _I dare you to look deeper._

Bending down on his haunches, by the feet of Marissa Schurr, Will dipped his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a bull point pent. Marissa had been pinned to the wall, antlers used as meat hooks. However, her feet did not touch the ground. No. They were a few inches off, elevated, another crack for which the War Horse to creep, a thousand other cells for it to take over. _Another clue._ Using the tip of his bull point pen, Will lifted Marissa's blue pinky toe. The sole of her foot was slick and black. Just as he thought. Will knew two things from this one chomp of a sugar cube.

The killer knew the body would begin to sag from the weight and the antlers in a matter of hours, and so, the clue would have been sullied if he, or those around him, had not been fast enough to catch it. The killer was testing how fast, and most importantly, how smart they were. That also meant the killer knew he, and they, would be seeing the body in a time frame acceptable to this restraint. Secondly, well...

"On her feet is motor oil. Brushed on. Slow. They took their time with this part. She's naked, all apart from her underwear and the two ankle bracelets. Silver. Thin. The kind you give at newborn christenings. Only these are bigger, made recently, just for this purpose. However… It's not her name inscribed. Jude Harlow 2016-2017. And the other, Marie Mandez, 1965-2015."

Will felt the hot breathe of the War Horse flutter across his face as it puffed. It smelled sweet, like ripe pear, and acidic bleach with a dusting of copper. Decay and fire and blood. Hannibal added his two cents to Will's burning bucket.

"You believe the killer is grieving? The loss of a child and wife is a reasonable motive for the break in psyche for this to-"

Will pulled the pen back, letting the pinky toe flop back into place as he stood once more, rolling his neck and tugging on the hem of his shirt. God. It was hot. Sweltering. Was that in his mind too? Was this how the killer felt? Cloaked in hell fire?

"No. Different people. Not related. Not at all. Don't you see?"

Will could feel Jack's dark eyes smouldering into him, or perhaps he was charring already. Still, he pushed on. Him and Jack were the same that way. Stubborn. Stepping closer to what remained of Marissa, Will turned his attention to her head balanced in her stitched, cradling hands. Once again using the bull point pen, he missed the striking viper darting out her swollen cracked lips, and pulled the flesh down. The viper was a red herring.

 _I tell lies,_ _see my tongue of lies,_ _do you lie too?_

The killer thought Marissa lied, and, as with the feet and bracelets, they were begging for someone to look deeper than the show put on. _Lies are like a play, glitzy, bedazzling, the truth is backstage with the lights_ _and the costumes and_ _the makeup. Take a look. Peep behind the curtain if you can._ Leaning in until his own nose nearly touch Marissa's, Will sniffed. He was correct. He pulled back, nearly dropping his pen with his shaking hands as he yanked it free from the black mouth.

"There's alcohol. Some residue pooling in the gum of her mouth. Brown. Whiskey, I believe. Rubbed on and inserted post-mortem. The bracelets, the motor oil, the addition of alcohol..."

Hannibal Lecter finished the garbled sentence for him, compressing it in a way Will was finding difficult.

"Drunk driving and hit and run. This killer knew Marissa had, inadvertently, killed. Perhaps this killer is a relative of the deceased? Vengeance is a powerful motivator."

Too easy. To clean. That was the play. The truth was backstage. This killer worked in layers upon layers, like assemblage. Will had to peel them back, slither by stinking slither, as one had to draw a curtain back by pull and pull of rope until your palm got friction burn. In his silence, Jack, as he always did, asked the one question Will despised more than anything else.

"What do you see, Will."

Then again, it wasn't a question was it? There was no question mark in his voice. Just a demand. _What do you see Will?_ He saw a fucking War Horse made from fire, blood and bone raging against the horizon. That is what he saw. But Jack wouldn't understand that. He would not be able to feel what Will feels, and it would be lost on him. It was lost on everyone. So very lost. Slowly, ever so slowly, Will closed his eyes. He felt a whoosh, a pendulum swinging, golden light.

"They're calm. Collected. In control. They take their time. Precise in everything they do. Every cut, every stitch, every addition is thought out, executed with calculated accuracy. Death is not a new game for them. It's familiar. Old. A friend they know well and truly that has come knocking on their door throughout their lives. They've learnt to knock back. They know how to speak through it, how to work it like clay."

Yes. This Killer was chaotic, volcano clashing with tornado, but there was also a resounding clarity to them. There was a logical reason behind their visceral madness. _The synchronisation of chaos._ This is what Will was seeing. What he was feeling. The phenomenon of synchronised chaos. When two, or more, dissipative chaotic systems are coupled. This person was split, so to speak. One of them was cold. Calculative. Practised. The other was raging. Impassioned. Full of energy and fire. This, Marissa Schurr… This was those two halves, those two chaotic systems operating in the same fleshy prison, merging into one terrifying being. A being who was both cold and fiery, calculated and impulsive, practised and raw. Both the best and worst of each one. Split no longer.

"They've lost and killed before, but never like this. They see themselves as a martyr. The crown of thorns forever embedded on their brow. Look at it. Marissa's head is cut off, detached, clasped in her own hands almost as if it is an offering to the gods themselves. This is what they made me. This is what they took from me. This is what they stole. They took, and took and took and took. Well, take it back. It is mine no longer."

There was no doubt in his voice. No hesitancy. Will was as sure as he was the sun would rise tomorrow. You did not do this, not this, never this, if you had not killed before. Yet, vice versa, he knew this _was_ the first time the killer had killed in such way. If so, it was so, Will knew, how good would they get in time? They were purposefully trying to gain attention. They wanted this saw, felt, and understood. This was their proclamation.

 _ **I dare you to look deeper.**_

"And I killed it. That martyr. I took control back. I took my life back. I took my face back. This..."

Will's eyes opened and he was met with the rose petals of blood.

"Is me. It is what I've always been. I-… They could not see until know."

Will coughed, breaking just a little, as he ran a hand through his hair. He felt split too, jumbled, scattered. He began to pace, eyes falling away from the body as the clues, so many fucking clues, shouting at him, screaming at him, began to stitch together in his mind, in the same damned golden thread the killer had used on Marissa.

"The killer likely lost their parents young. Perhaps even before they could form memories of them. Other people, friends, relatives, gone. But it's not a loss, not to them. Not any more. It's-"

Will tugged that mental rope, he yanked and heaved for all his worth, and finally, the curtain lifted, he looked deep enough, and there was the backstage. There was the truth. He froze.

"It's all about balance. You take a life, a life is owed in place. Shit… Jack."

For once, Will found himself willingly initiating eye contact.

"This isn't just a testimony. This isn't a personal manifesto. It's not just a proclamation."

 _The War Horse. The War Horse. The War Horse._ He had saw it all along. It had only taken him time to interpret it.

"It's a declaration of war."

Will could feel Hannibal's hand come to rest on his shoulder, but Will could not shirk it off, he could not breathe, he could not move. He saw the War Horse, on its back astride a veiled rider cloaked in black scaled cloth as slinky and shimmering as oil, cascading from head to toe until there was only a hint of a form, their own crown of fire circling their bent head. They, the War Horse and the Veiled Rider reared up, hooves to the sky, and Will could see it, a long stick, a weapon, in their hand as they pointed it right at him and-

"Declaration of war?"

Hannibal's question forced Will back into reality and even he, as experienced as he was, could not fully hide the sag of his shoulders or the notched breath. Trying to bring himself back to himself, Will jerked his glasses off his face, using the hem of his shirt to diligently scrub at the lens. As his fingers shook, as he still heard the pounding of hooves on bone, Will scrambled together what little he could and hoped they could see as he did.

"Balance. They're seeking balance. This is not the first they've killed, but it is likely the first… Produced this way. However, their motive has stayed the same. They won't attack innocent people. They find it uncouth. Don't you see? Balance must be restored. When you take a life, you owe one in return, and they, this killer, _will_ come riding."

Jack's answering voice was edgy, like a cornered fox, undecided whether it wanted to run or fight. Will did not blame him. He felt the same. This was unique.

"What are you saying Will?"

Jack knew what he was saying. As did Hannibal. They all knew. Yet, none of them wanted to acknowledge it. It blurred the lines. Made shades of grey invade their comfortable black and white world. There was a sympathy to see and feel with this one. They had a conscience, as twisted as it was, a moral and ethical code, as deranged as it was, that was understandable.

"This killer only kills killers, Jack."

 _And I dare you to say that ten times fast._ This murderer, this killer, a serial killer in the budding, only killed other serial killers. And if this was their first, no, not first… Second, only their second… They were good. Too good. Perhaps, Jack had finally bit off more than he could chew. Perhaps they all had.

"Maybe if Marissa had informed the police, if she had only did it once, she would have likely been looked over by this killer. But she didn't. She went back out and she repeated the same actions that caused the first crash. That shows a pattern, a pattern this killer doesn't like. In death and killing, once is an accident… Twice is a design. The more someone kills, the higher their body count, the harder this one will come for them. Marissa had only killed twice, involuntary manslaughter doesn't mean much to this killer, but even so, she was only used as a canvas to get this message across, nothing more than a scrap of paper to jot down upon. _I am riding. I am coming. I see you._ "

Will laughed. Marissa was the merging. She was the message. She was the christening. Nevertheless, who was the message for? Who was this killers real target? This was meant for someone. Will startled as he heard a phantom shot ring in his ear. He saw Garret Jacob Hobbs fall. He saw the blood. He saw the smile. He was a killer too. _Do you see?_

"They won't stop, Jack. They won't."

Woefully, Will didn't know whether he was talking of this killer any longer, for he knew they would not stop, or the damned visions that haunted him, for they weren't stopping either, no matter how much he tried to distance himself. Jack ran a tired hand down his face, pulling at the stubble of his jaw. He looked old then. Old and tired and beyond his years.

"And you're sure they will strike again?"

Will nodded. This message wasn't directed at him. Not directly. Will was a conduit. This was a warning, Will was only the alarm system this killer had decided to use to blare their message to the masses. That was… Worrying. This killer knew enough to know he _saw._ They knew Will would understand. Again, they were betting on it. They, Will, Jack, all of them, had played out exactly as this killer wanted them too. It was an odd feeling, to realise there were strings attached to you, strings someone from a shady perch was pulling and twisting, making you dance to the song in their head.

"Yes. They've done this before. Perhaps a survivor of an attack? A living victim of a serial killer? They've gone toe to toe with a killer before, and they've won. They keep winning. _They restored balance._ That is what they are after. That is their motive. That is their justification. That is their design."

Will turned to look at poor Marissa once more. Her head clasped in her own hands. He had been right before. Partially. It was both a sacrifice to the gods, symbolic of the transformation this killer had undergone, shedding the faces and masks forced on them by others, but it was also symbolic of a scale, weighing Marissa's virtue. The scales, and this killer, had found her lacking and she had paid the price for that deficiency.

"They're trying to say something with this murder. It's a warning. The black spot, so to speak. They're heralding their coming like the four horsemen. _On a red horse War rides._ It's flamboyant in its openness. Almost arrogant. This is who I am and I am proud to be this way. Death is _my_ game."

The War Horse. The Veiled Rider. That was who Will had been seeing all along. One of the four horsemen. _War_. Bloodstained. Wrathful. Measured. Controlled. Contradictions in balance. Two chaotic systems on a scale lastly levelling out. _A killer who only kill_ _s_ _killers._ They had their own way of seeing too. They must have. They had saw Marissa's guilt when no one else had, not even the police. Waving a hand at the stag skull, Will pointed out the roses.

"Painting the roses red. Alice in wonderland. They're fixing your mistake. You have a price to pay, and you've been running, and they've come riding in to collect. It's a fucking warning, Jack. A declaration of war. But Garret Jacob Hobbs is dead, they wouldn't concern themselves with a debt already paid, so why now? Why here? What's drawn their attention so snarlingly?"

It came to him then. It came and it crashed and it stole his breathe away.

"The copycat..."

Jack frowned.

"What?"

Will was in movement, all of him, his hands gesturing, his chest heaving, his feet pacing. There was nothing still about Will. All his atoms, all of them, were crashing and circling and he could hear the stomping of hooves matching his heartbeat. This is what the War Horse felt like. This was what the Veiled Rider felt like. _This was the Killer._ A being in invariant motion, zapping from one point to another, jumping like atoms through space and time.

"The copycat has drawn they're attention. This murder, this warning is for him. I see you. I know you. I feel you there and here I come on the count of ten."

A voice spoke up by the railing of the stairs.

"Abigail Hobbs too, I suspect. She is, after all, under investigation for complicity in her father's murders. This killer is obviously good at knowing things. They knew Marissa had been involved in a car accidents with two deaths without the police knowing. This killer could believe Abigail was participating in her daddy's night time feasts. If so, and if this killer really only targets other killers, than Abigail is in the line of fire."

It was Hemlock, Will found, as his neck twisted as his gaze darted to her. He had, in all honesty, forgotten she was there, so swept up in Marissa and this War Horse. She was perched on the bannister of the stairs, easy, mellow. She had stripped herself from her jacket, rested her elbows on her bent knees which were propped up by the middle bar of the railing, chin perched on fist, with her shoe laces undone, onyx hair down and half-hazardous around her shoulders.

There was something wrong in that image. There had been something wrong with it all day, since Will had met up with her and the rest this morning to travel to the Hobbs cabin. Hemlock, since Will had known her, always wore the leather jacket two sizes too big. Her hair, in its overambitious curls, were always swept up in a tight bun. She always kept her back to a wall, Will had found, and here, now, she had it out in the open, towards the stairs, almost challengingly. And her shoes, well, they were always knotted to balls of tangled laces.

 _A kite with no string._ That was what Hemlock reminded Will of that day. A kite with their string cut, sailing up into the sky, loose and free. Between a heartbeat, between the clatter of hooves pounding in his head, Will saw her with a crown of fire, tears of blood and smoke whisping from the corners of her mouth. He saw the War Horse rearing proudly in her emerald eyes.

Will scrubbed at his eyes harshly as he heard the thud of Hemlock jumping down from the bannister. He was tired. He was seeing things. Making dots where there were no dots. That was all. By the time his eyes were open and back on Hemlock, the crown of fire was gone, so was the smoking mouth and bloody tears and the War Horse in her eye. She was smiling softly, padding over, placing a palm on his arm gently, her thumb flicking back and forth like a pendulum. Will felt calmer. Settled. Himself once more as his foot stopped tapping on the floor. He had not realised he was doing that.

"Can you see anything personal about this killer, Will? Something that could begin a personality profile?"

Right. Yes. Hemlock couldn't work until she knew what a person was like, how they felt, their motives. That would explain why she had been silent up until this point, waiting for Will to get his shit together to give her the emotional foundation she could build behavioural patterns from, and then, hopefully, tell them what this killer was going to do next. Coughing once more to clear his throat, Will concentrated on the small hand on his biceps, hoping the delicate fingers and brushing thumb could keep him grounded. It worked.

"They have a high IQ. It helps them plan, manipulate and exploit those around them. They're good at lying. Real good, Jack. They could look you in the eye and tell you the sky was red, and you would believe them. They cheat for the thrill of it, just to see if you, or anybody, would pick it up. They'll do it right under your nose too, just to prove how stupid you are. They get a thrill out of it. Another game won. They have no regard for their own safety or those around them. They can be impulsive and reckless when bored. They need constant stimulation. They're always in movement, Jack. Always thinking. Always working. Always planning. _Always._ When pushed, or cornered, they'll get extremely aggressive. They have a complete disregard for right and wrong construed by others. They follow their own morales, as… Alien as we might find them. They can be cold and unfeeling in emotionally charged environments. Callous. Harsh. Critical. Yet, you'll find it endearing. You'll think it nothing but sarcasm or dry wit. They love mind games, its one of the only things that excites them beyond the boredom they so often find themselves trapped in."

Hemlock's hand was warm. He could feel it seeping in through his shirt, over his skin, right down to the bone.

"They're… They know how to wear many faces for many occasions, but that is all it is. Masks. Sometimes the masks slips and the people around them would see their true face, but, well, this killer is smart, they'd have the mask back on so fast and so tightly, those around them would begin to question their own sanity. Sometimes, I would bet, they do it on purpose just to see the people around them become unbalanced. _People_ don't interest them. Not often. People are daisies in an open field. Pretty to look at sometimes, but just as easy to trample, and even more entertaining to rip their petals off one by one. They're charming and witty, but secretive. No one has ever really known what goes on in their head. Not really. No one has ever really seen their true face. Not fully."

And here came Will's own warning.

"Only, you would never know any of this. No one will. You would only ever know the mask they show you and, Jack, don't mistake me for this, you _won't_ see through it. As soon as they've seen you, they've already picked you apart in seconds, stripped you right down to your atoms, created a mask just for you from the substance of your own mind, and you will buy it hook line and sinker. This killer will be the last person you expect. The last person _anyone_ suspects."

Gradually, Will could feel Hemlock's hand fall away from his arm. For a flash, he wanted to reach out and grab it. Bring it back. Feel its warmth. But Hemlock was already turning away, back towards the stair case, the fingers of her hand flexing in pairs of three and one. She was either upset about something, hurt, or she was holding back laughter. She only ever flexed her hand in those two extremes. Never between. And Will had not noticed until that very moment how very closely he must have been watching Hemlock before to have picked that tick up. Jack whistled low and long.

"That's a lot to read."

Will pictured his dogs. Winston. George. Clarice. Scruffy. All of them. He pictured them and his bed, and his house with snow on the ground, painting the landscape white. Home. He wanted to go home. Yet, even here, trying to envisage home, his imagination was not fully under his own control. He pictured Hemlock on the porch, crochet blanket hung around her shoulders, hair down and free, dog toy in hand, playing with Winston on the steps, and there, through the window, the light slicing through the glass, he could see Hannibal in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up to elbow, needing some dough of some sort that would be as fancy and intricate as the whole meal put together. Hemlock would call him a ponce for it, but she'd scoff it down all the same and even go for seconds. And Hannibal would call her impertinent for tracking mud into the house, though there would be a smile on his face as they both cleaned it up. And they would turn to him, call-

For once, Will forced himself back into the room and adamantly stayed there. Far from his imagination. Far from home. Far from this unexplainable image of Hannibal and Hemlock and all the nasty little connotations that brought with it. _Focus._

"As I said, they've been very open in this… Message. They want us to know them, Jack. They're betting on it. This, well, it's another game to them. I see you, but can you see me? Peek-a-boo."

Again and again, it was Hannibal who precisely narrowed it all down, everything, to a single sentence that meant everything Will had ranted.

"A high functioning sociopath."

Hemlock kicked back against the bannister, crossing her arms over her chest, her head cocking to the side and Will realised she wasn't hiding laughter, nor anger. _She was hurt._

"Like the copycat?"

She spat it out like one would a fish bone half eaten from their mariners pie. With a scratchy voice, a slight taste of betrayal and a taut sort of anger lurking underneath it all. Will was quick to answer, not quite sure why he wanted to underline the differences between the copycat and this killer as deeply as he did.

"No, the copycat is a _psychopath_. Psychopaths completely lack all forms of empathy. A sociopath, however, still contains some underdeveloped fraction of it. Not a lot, and it's harder to emotionally connect, but there is… Something still there. It's crooked, it's weeping, and its very small, but it's there. This killers motive, if I am correct and they do target other killers, could be some distorted moral compass, however shrivelled, still active."

But, in the end, it was Jack who burst with anger.

"We came here for Abigail Hobbs, to see if she was involved in her fathers murder, and instead of an answer, I'm left with the conclusion that I have both a psychopath and a sociopath playing battlefield in my jurisdiction? Am I to be expecting more bodies while these two duke it out?"

Will laughed. He really couldn't help it. All the while, the stomping of hooves came crashing back into him. Circle. Around. Around. Around.

"Only one if this killer gets to the copycat first. If not… Yes. Many. Neither one will give in, Jack. It's not in them."

Hannibal stepped forward, away from Marissa and closer to Jack.

"Abigail Hobbs is not a killer. But she could be the target of one, as Hemlock rightly pointed out."

Jack considered this for a while, before he reigned his own anger and frustration in, tugged on the lapel of his coat and nodded to the doctor.

"I think it's time Abigail Hobbs left home permanently. Doctor, would you be good enough to collect Abigail and all her belongings and escort her out of Minnesota please? Hemlock? If you could accompany the doctor, and please, keep and eye on Abigail, perhaps looks for signs for her involvement in her fathers crimes, or clues to see if this… New killer will, in fact, target her too. I would appreciate it."

Hannibal was the first to nod as he headed towards the stairs. Hemlock lingered in the shadows, watching, before her green eyes drifted to Will's own blue. They stayed there, pinned, watching, searching. For what? Will did not know, but as a small smile broke across her face, as the hurt and anger bled out of her skin, he thought she might of found what she wanted there, in the dip of his dilated pupil. Inclining her head just a fraction in his direction, an odd sign of respect from Hemlock, she too was slinking to Hannibal's side before the two began to head down. Will went to follow, but Jack reached out, grasping at his shoulder.

"Not you Will. I need you here."

Reluctantly, he nodded. There would be no dogs today. No home. Once again, that damned image of Hannibal and Hemlock gleamed across his mind like a sunbeam breaking through shut curtains. This was a curtain Will didn't want to open, a rope he refused to pull right now, and so, instead, he let the little sunbeam warm him as much as its frail golden light could as he turned to face Marissa again.

* * *

 _2 hours ago…_

Hannibal's P.O.V

The Hobbs residence was swarming with police, paparazzi, disturbed neighbours and livid locals. It was a curious circus of discord, Hannibal would admit. Withal, even more intriguing, to Hannibal at least, was the three individuals with him as they pulled the car through the crowd and rolled up onto the driveway. Doctor Alana Bloom was in full professional armour, voice fleecy and mild as she twittered maternally to Abigail Hobbs in the back seat of his car. Abigail herself was wonder struck by the crowd around them, screaming, yelling, demanding statements or justice, as she fiddled with the scarf draped around her neck, her face flaring sickeningly from blue to red from the flashing sirens of the line of police cars blockading the house. And Hemlock, well.

Hemlock was beside him, in the passenger seat, one dainty leg crossed over the other, hands laxly interlocked in her lap, completely still. If not for the eyes and face, one could comfortably say it was a completely other person sitting in this very car. She had changed back in the motel, when he and she rode back to pick up Abigail and Alana to bring to the Hobbs residency, and the shift had almost been too much, for even Alana had picked up on the drop with an almost shocked, _don't you look smart, Harry?_ Of course, Hemlock had quickly repulsed any shock with a weary rub of the back of her neck as she stuttered through not wanting to embarrass anyone, especially Abigail, by running around in torn jeans and timberlands when there would be so many people watching.

Yes, gone was the leather jacket, holey jeans and scuffed boots, and with it, that sort of haggard child-like innocence she had carried. In their absence stood a thin high neck top, sleeves cropped to the elbow, a green so dark it was almost as black as the rest of her outfit. High waisted slacks made her legs seem longer than her short height really allowed them to be, and the pressed crease running down the front gave her an air of steady expertise. The blazer was nothing special, but the silk lining matched her top, as did the sleeves, the lapels thin and sweeping, with a little broach on the left pinned over of a snake wrought in coiling silver and emerald eye, wrapping around a lion hewn from gold. On her feet dangled a pair of shiny black brock shoes, neatly bowed and laced, and her cigarette slacks left a tiny slither of pale ankle on show, not quite meeting shoe. Her hair was down too, just grazing the slope of her shoulder, brushed to obedience and glimmering in the flashing lights, half pinned behind her small ear.

She had seemingly aged ten years in a matter of hours, no longer a scraggly teen who wished to blend and hide in corners and crooks. There was a keenness to her features, marble cut, as the shadows that had, only yesterday, haunted the dip of her sockets was bleached away by a good nights sleep. The first in a long time, Hannibal would say. There was colour returning to her face too, to the swell of her lips and the arch of her cheeks, a blush of an apple. This was Hemlock.

Not that ragged, twitchy teen, but this person besides him. This was who she had always been, having shredded her baby skin by Marissa Schurr's teeth. Composed. Piercing. Growing into her own body in a way not many would understand. But he did. To people like them, their bodies were a weapon, a tool. Hemlock had grown tired of playing the beaten down teen, she had outgrown that skin long before they had met, he was sure, and now, having finally accepted who and what she was, she was beginning to sharpen it into something to intimidate, to instil a sense of ownership. Nothing said listen to me, I know what I am talking about, you can trust me, I can lead, like a suit could, and Hannibal should know that, as it was his own personal indulgence too.

Hannibal had been impressed, near inspired by Hemlock's handling of Marissa Schurr. She had… Surprised him. That alone not many could boast. Will Graham had furthered this by his unwavering delve into her mind through Marissa's body, another engrossing thing to bare witness to. _A killer who killed killers._ How very fascinating. There was so much possibility there. So much. More than he had originally gave Hemlock, and, rarely, Hannibal was actually glad to be surprised. You see, the truth laid in the prey, and to really see Hemlock, he needed to see what her choice of prey was. You could tell a lot about a killer, no, a person, by what they chose to consume or eat. Killers were no different. People who ate piglets and veal, often had inferiority complexes, the need to dominate those weaker around them to feel empowered. Garret Jacob Hobbs had an inferiority complex. Those that inflicted extra pain on the animal before slaughter were lashing out, trying to expunge their own feelings of pain.

Hemlock had chosen something to symbolize herself. In a way, she was a cannibal too, spitting and slitting her own kind. It wasn't in self loathing. It was in a sense of the hunt. That was what Hemlock enjoyed. The chase, and what better chase was there to have but with people who thought, fought and talked like you? None. And here she was, sitting beside him, beginning another hunt with him that she did not know, not yet, was with him at all. What would Will's prey be? A question for a later date, Hannibal thought. One by one, they exited the car.

Strolling towards the house, Hannibal made sure to keep tight to Hemlock's side as Alana fussed over Abigail. Nearing the door, a woman's shout rang out, as a shadow lurched away from the crowd at the gate to the house, running towards them. A cop gave chase, but the distraught woman was faster.

"You killed my daughter!"

The mother from yesterday. Hannibal cut a glance down to Hemlock, only to see her watching the woman, eyeing the streaming tears and snot collecting in the cupids bow of her thin lips. There wasn't even a wince. Hannibal would have to teach her to hide those little sociopathic tendencies better. As Alana went to intercept Abigail, who was tottering over to the woman, stuttering through this or that regret, Hannibal slid in towards the woman, hiding Hemlock from view. Looking back over, he was met with a smile. Small. Barely there. Just a hint. Yet, Hemlock was smiling. At him. She wasn't watching the woman at all. Hannibal smiled back.

Another surprise. Hemlock had done that on purpose. She wanted to know what he would do. Did she already have suspicions that it was he, Hannibal, that was the copycat? Unlikely. What was it Will had said? _They're always in movement, Jack. Always thinking. Always working. Always planning. Always._ She was planning something. She wanted to know whether he would cover for her, how far that oath of 'confidentiality' extended, and whether he was going to become a difficulty. By the grin, she liked the answer. She possibly didn't suspect he knew it was her who was the one who had… Worked on Marissa, but she was testing his boundaries in a way he, nor anyone, could openly question without giving too much away. Therefore, something was going to happen tonight. While he was present.

"Why did you come back here? Why did you come back here!"

Eventually, a cop in full uniform came jogging over, clacking something into the walkie-talkie latched to his puffed jacket, as he began to escort the distraught women back to the street. By the time they reached the porch of the house, they were stalled once more as someone stepped out of the umbrageous corner of the house, hair gleaming carmine in the orange light of the decking. Miss Freddie Lounds.

"Abigail!"

Hannibal addressed her.

"Miss Lounds, you're on the wrong side of the police line."

The reporter jostled passed a cop, towards them, as, yet again, another came darting over from the line surrounding the house, holding the rabid masses at bay.

"I've been covering the Minnesota Shrike long before you got involved."

How very _rude_. The police officer made it to them, snatching up Freddie's arm as he began to drag her away, but the persistent reporter was not finished without getting to say the final words, as she heaved in Abigail's direction.

"I want to help you tell your story. You need me now more than ever!"

Alana was already trying to herd Abigail into the house, away from the circus outside, but the teen was beginning to put up a weak fight.

"I want to talk to her."

Alana shook her head.

"No. No you don't."

Alana shouldered the front door open as Abigail gave up the fight, following compliantly with bent head. Hannibal went to follow, but he could hear a scuff of a shoe, the dull pad of steps walking away. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Hemlock walking towards Freddie, steps slinky and hands shoved into the pocket of her slacks. With a nod to Alana, to show they would catch up, Hannibal followed after Hemlock.

"I'm not the only one lurking around, peeping inside the windows. You need to monitor those police lines more carefully."

Hannibal did not interfere this time. This time _he_ watched. Stopping the police officer, Hemlock turned her attention to Miss Lounds.

"Have you seen a young man, mid twenties, ginger hair? Unwashed?"

Well. Hemlock was intransigent about establishing Nicholas Boyle as a threat, wasn't she? Was she hoping he would come tonight? Hannibal thought so. She wouldn't be looking for him, trying to spot hints of his presence, if she did not want him here. For what, exactly, was beyond what Hannibal was willing to say or guess. Hemlock had surprised him twice this day, a third time and that was establishing a pattern he would rather not have entrenched. No. Hannibal Lecter was all too happy to sit back and simply watch the show Hemlock was quite obviously fixing for.

"I'll tell you if I saw him, if you tell me why it's important?"

Miss Lounds haggled with a grin just shy of being too toothy. Hemlock returned the gesture, but there was no question, hers was all tooth.

"Can I have your number?"

Miss Lounds scrabbled into her coat pocket, but Hannibal turned his eye to the police officer. His face was blank, ruddy, eyes glazed as he stared over their heads at nothing at all. Hannibal frowned. There was obviously a security leak happening right under his nose and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, happening behind his eyes, as if someone had reached in and flipped the switch off.

"Of course, here! If you want to speak about anything, anything at all, I can keep it strictly confidential."

Miss Lounds handed over a tatty business card, her own number scratched out and re-written in by blue biro. Hemlock took it without ever meeting Lounds's skin with her own, shoving it down into her breast pocket.

"Oh, I'm sure it will stay just between us. If I were you though, I'd leave, but stay close. I'll give you a ring later."

Hemlock lifted a hand and clicked, merely clicked, and the police officer came back to himself, thawed, as he began to drag Freddie back towards the line.

"Hemlock?"

"Tonight is going to be a strange night, Hannibal. You're going to see strange things. Hear strange things. Perhaps even do strange things. However, as my therapist, and more importantly, my _friend_ , I'm hoping you can deal with strange. Will's in danger. We both know that. Will is my friend too, and I'm doing what I can to protect him. The same I would do for you. Now, is this going to be a problem? Can you handle _strange_ doctor Lecter?"

There was a honk of a car off in the distance.

"I am convinced that the only people worthy of consideration in this world are the unusual ones. For the common folks are like the leaves of a tree, and live and die unnoticed."

Hemlock began to amble back to the house, but Hannibal could see her smile flicker in the pulsing lights of red and blue.

"Easy. The Scarecrow from The Land of OZ. All forms of madness, bizarre habits, awkwardness in society, general clumsiness, are justified in the person who creates good art. Roman Payne, in Rooftop Soliloquy. Do you think I create _good art,_ Hannibal?"

 _She knew._ At least, she knew he knew that Marissa was hers. Hemlock had not underestimated him. She saw him, his intelligence, and she knew he would make the link as soon as Will started speaking. Had that been what she wanted? Hannibal didn't think she thought he was the copycat, but she was beginning to realize he was not as he seemed, him not pointing her out when it was obviously her being described by Will, even after their therapy sessions, had emphasized that. In all likelihood, she had probably tracked Garret Jacob Hobbs back to him and believed he was his therapist who, as Hannibal had done for her, not alerted the authorities when the warnings were ringing clearly. If so, she might see him as an open ear, explaining why she had suddenly shifted to contrite openness. _They're always in movement, Jack. Always thinking. Always working. Always._

Or, perhaps, this was another game to play, another chessboard being set up, something to pass the time before the 'copycat' replied. Hemlock was so fond of them, games, and Hannibal thought she might be quick enough to play more than one at a time. His girl was a smart girl indeed. Hand on the front door knob, Hannibal looked down at her.

"If you remember correctly, it was I who endorsed your efforts into art. Assemblage, in point of fact. However..."

The clank of the front door handle turning overrode Hannibal's hushed voice as he leant down, towards her ear.

"The antlers and skull were lopsided."

Hemlock's lustrous laughter followed them both through the mouth of the house.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** We finally loop back around as everything comes to a head in the Hobbs house.

 **Some Notes on this chapter:**

1\. I liked the imagery of linking Hemlock to one of the four horsemen. However, it would have been pretty cliché, at least in my view, of connecting her to death. That's a trope, a well deserved one at that, that many have already used. I wanted a fresh take on it. And, with Hemlock, how I have her, I think she fits the concept of War a lot better than death. Harry, even in canon, has throughout his life been in constant conflict (War). Conflict with Vernon and Petunia and Dudley, conflict with Snape, Albus and Draco, even his/her best friends have underlying moments of conflict. And most importantly, he/she's been in war with themselves. War seemed to be a good fit for Hemlock. Plus, in this fic at least, she seemingly carries conflict around with her, spreading it, like Will said, like a virus that creeps in through the littlest cracks. Additionally, this imagery of the four horsemen becomes a pretty constant thread in this fic. Conquest, Famine and Death (The original four horsemen) all come into play. Don't worry, Abigail isn't one of these, but the roles do get fit with some of our favourite characters (Can you guess who?), and you obviously know Will and Hannibal will be two of the three (but which ones? ;)).

2\. I just want to emphasize not to take anything at face value with this fic. Everybody, and I pretty much mean everybody, is using everybody else around them. Its a complete tangled bed of weeds my friends. Apart from Will. Will just wants to go home, lmao. However, especially when we're outside Hemlock's own P.O.V, don't take what she says/does as it is. As Will said, she's a person of many faces, she mimics what the other person reflects on her. I wanted that to come through in my writing.

3\. I am not intentionally dumbing Will Graham down, and I fear that may be how it is coming across. Honestly, that is not my intention. However, the way I view Will is, for those close to him, such as Abigail, Hannibal, and in this fic, Hemlock, Will has great big blinders on. In the show, it takes Will a very long time to clock onto what Hannibal is, and even then, there's a reluctance there, or that is what I read into it. I think he knew for a long time, he just didn't want to see it. He also stoutly refuses to see Abigail as what she is even when all the clues are pointing to it. That's what I'm trying to bring into this fic. Will has an almost blind loyalty and optimism for those he connects with. He sees the best in them, but, unfortunately for him, he can't really recognize the not so good parts lol. That's why, in this chapter, I really wanted a scene where Will looks at Hemlock, sees that fire crown, sees what's really lurking underneath, obviously knows what that is hinting at, but still, denies it because, no, Hemlock is his 'friend' and she wouldn't because she's a good person. It's not that he's being stupid, he spots the hints alright, he just hopes there's more, and that's what I adore about Will. He sees the small slither of good in people and he holds on tight to it (In the earlier seasons XD) and he doesn't give up hope. I also think that's what attracts people like Hannibal and Hemlock to Will. No one wants to be seen as a monster, hated for what they are, Will offers something not many would. Hope.

4\. Is Harry going to find out about Hannibal before Will? Short answer? No. That remains for Will. I don't want to give too much away, but Hemlock suffers from big blinders like Will. In part due to her arrogance, and partly because Hannibal's already wormed his way in a little and Hemlock, if she has only one good virtue left any more, she's loyal. Which, is obviously going to cause huge fucking tension and conflict when Hemlock does find out about Hannibal. Oh, she knows there's more to him, but she's not linking him to the copycat killer or anything else for a while. And while she's not connecting the dots, as she should, Hannibal, as Hannibal does, is digging deeper and deeper. As I said, dear reader, this is a tangled bed of weeds indeed!

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 **THANK YOU ALL** for the lovely follows, favourites and reviews, they all made me smile and keep me coming back to this fic. If you have a moment, please drop a review and hopefully, the next chapter will be out soon!


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER SEVEN: SUGAR QUILLS PART ONE**

* * *

 _Hannibal Lecter's P.O.V_

It was the white stick. Such an innocuous object. As Hannibal and Hemlock made their way across the landing of the Hobbs home, past the three stags heads mounted on mahogany, Alana Bloom sauntering out from the darkened room off to the side in front of them, none the wiser to the pair, Abigail Hobbs lurching up the stairs they were all converging on, ashen and dewy-eyed, blood on her hands, it was the white stick Hemlock carried with her that finally emphasized that Hemlock Potter, as Hannibal first thought when he had first met her, was irrevocably exceptional.

You see, Hemlock didn't have it on her. Not in her hair. Not up her cropped sleeves. Not strapped to her side or hidden in shoe. Heretofore, as Alana Bloom's head began to turn, towards the stairs and Abigail with her blood soaked hands, as Hannibal himself took a single crisp step forward to intercept and incapacitate Alana, Hannibal saw it appear. Her wrist flicked, like one would with flicking open a butterfly knife, and there, with a small crack, between her fingers, appeared the white bone stick, right out of thin air.

The lone step was all Hannibal had time to take before Hemlock was in movement, swishing the stick in an intricate pattern, so fast it was hard to keep track of, as light, so lambent and burning, as ruddy as the congealing blood on Abigail's hands, came flashing from the tip, hurtling through the stagnant taut air, crashing like a wave into Alana Bloom's back. The force of the hit, had it been corporeal, should have sent Alana flying into the bricked wall beside her, or down the stairs head first, but none of that sort happened. It merely… Went into her. Absorbed. Ingested. The good doctor simply crumbled to the floor, like a puppet with her strings cut.

"She's fine. Just unconscious. Strange things, Hannibal. Remember? Strange things."

 _Not here, and not right now._ _Later._ That was what Hemlock was really asking. Still, Hannibal could not stop his gaze from lingering on that arm, that delicate wrist, white stick still in nimble fingers. Piano hands, many would call them. No. There was no string or strap on her arm, something tied to the wrist so she could pull the stick free from her biceps should she twist the joint a certain way. Neither was there any belt or pocket around her side that could have hidden the stick. Nothing but air, and there, lingering in the space between them, an acute increase in that zingy, mouthwatering smell Hemlock obliviously carried with her everywhere she went. Moreover, even if the stick had been hidden or concealed, what was the light? How did it come from a carved limb of wood? No, Hannibal quickly refuted. The stick was a conduit. Hemlock was the source. Strange things indeed.

"What… How… I… There..."

Abigail started to babble, frozen near the top deck of the stairs like the doe she and her father had hunted, in human and animal form. Yet, Hemlock would not move, gazing steadily at him, unwavering and, for once, patient. It was his move. Accept this objectionable twist of actuality, or thrust and question, flip Hemlock's chessboard on its head by stalling her in such a crucial time of action. Hannibal would admit, the latter was tempting. Hannibal would be able to witness what she would do on her feet, confined by time, with an obviously phrenetic and deteriorating teen. How well would Hemlock be able to manipulate Abigail with Hannibal acting as confused and frantic as she? Abigail would not be so easy to sculpt if he too seemed weary and distressed by Hemlock. Abigail trusted him, she would take Hannibal's lead, and if Hannibal was to condemn Hemlock, act the part of scared cattle… Well, wouldn't that be the test?

Nevertheless, the former proved more delectably enticing. It would allow Hannibal to see what Hemlock had planned since standing on the decking, since witnessing the copycat, _him_ , for what he was worth, rose petals and anthrax, she had said, and to see all the dominoes she had set come toppling down in a sequence he had not saw coming. Another rarity. Additionally, it would gain him the one thing he wanted most. _Trust._ And trust, as most knew, was the gateway to familiarity, and familiarity bled into friendliness, friendliness was one line away from closeness, and that, with time and patience, _and trust,_ morphed into intimacy.

Hemlock, by nature and nurture, was a guarded individual. Exceedingly guarded. All of Hannibal's attempts so far, at constructing any sort of affinity between the two, had been proven in vain. In point of fact, she seemed abhorrently detested by it all. Until tonight. Trust did not come easy to her. He supposed it never had. But here she was, looking at him, asking him to trust her in not so many words, and in turn, by offering trust, he would gain it back and that was the door handle turning, the crack opening, just a slither. Hannibal gave a slight incline of the head. Hemlock was off towards the stairs before his chin righted itself, and through the open door Hemlock had left cracked open inside herself, Hannibal would slink through. Hemlock may not have been a naturally patient individual, but Hannibal _was._

"Abigail, what have you done?"

Abigail could only stutter at Hemlock's incredulous question. Her tone was pitched a fraction too high, a shade pantomime shock rather than true stupor, but, again, it was a good mimicry even if it did ring a bit hollow.

"I… I… I..."

The stick was still in Hemlock's hands, thumb lapping at the polished handle, languid wrist and, Hannibal knew, there was more to come, more to see, more to know. The police officer outside, dazed and blank, until a click of the fingers, Alana at their feet, breath swelling steady in her bosom, but out cold. Hypnosis? No. The triggers were too separate and, as a practitioner of hypnosis himself, Hannibal could not connect the apparent reactions to any practices he had preformed himself. Drugs? No. Hemlock could have reached Alana, dabbled in her food, but knowing which police officer would find Freddie Lounds, in fact, knowing Freddie would be there at all was improbable, and Hannibal had seen, with his own eyes, the bright light and snap of the fingers, and there was no way Hemlock had gotten to his food without coming to the understanding _he_ was the copycat.

So, Hannibal was not drugged. His pulse, as always, stood at a steady 72. His vision was clear. His senses untainted. He was not under hypnosis. Hannibal had never hallucinated before, or been prone to bouts of psychosis, induced or otherwise. This was no delusion. Hemlock could, and had, clicked her fingers and given a man's mind back after somehow taking it away, flicked a stick at a woman's back and stolen her consciousness, and with the stick in her hand still, there was more to come. There was one solution.

As any good doctor, or scientist, you had to see all the variables, understand the limitations, observe the actions in progress to come to a conclusion, as outlandish as that conclusion might be, and so, Hannibal _had_ to see more. Ah. His heart stood at 78 now. He was _excited_. Extremely. Hannibal slid in behind Hemlock, staring down at Abigail.

"Show us what happened."

 _And show me what you can do, Hemlock._ In a daze, caught between disillusionment and stupefaction, Abigail retraced her steps back down the stairs again, this time, followed by Hemlock and, of course, Hannibal. The body was in the front room, between the carpet and the open plan dining room beside it. Nicholas Boyle was spread eagled on the floor, plaid shirt torn, blood pooling around him, cooling, a serrated hunting knife carelessly dropped beside him, into his own growing puddle of blood. His eyes stared listlessly up at the ceiling, mouth open in a small fissure of a gap, never to close and never to blink again.

"He was going to kill me."

Abigail's voice was glacial, far-away, disassociated. She took across the distance to the body, just beside his blood, and fell to her knees, though those childlike eyes never strayed from the large glass patio doors, staring out into the night lit woods. Hemlock stayed close by the door of the stairs, watching the girl, and Hannibal himself stood behind her, in the shadows, a step above, watching Hemlock in an almost perverse train of voyeurism. Hannibal spoke softly. Not once did his eyes leave Hemlock.

"Was he?"

Hemlock had known Nicholas Boyle would come tonight. Perhaps, like Alana, the police officer, she had implanted that idea into his inferior mind. Had she used the stick? Her fingers? No, too easy for Hemlock. She enjoyed the game as much as he did. She had used only her tongue. Hannibal wondered what other suggestions and dark little innuendo's that tongue had given. What that tongue would taste like. Personally, Hannibal would pair it with an Adoboloco sauce. Or perhaps with saliva, still attached, still alive. Just a nip, a slice of fang, gentle, a taste. Hemlock was a spicy enough individual all by herself. Then again, she might very well bite his own tongue out just for the hell of it. He couldn't quite guess.

"He could have killed me in the woods. He didn't. He only got scared and knocked me out."

So that was the angle Hemlock was aiming for. Formulate Nicholas Boyle into some unstable, convulsive threat, to leave Abigail and the police sure of his violence, and then, when Abigail was most distressed, contort the narrative into Nicholas being the victim, a poor, hapless chap Abigail had needlessly slaughtered. In her shattered state, Abigail would buy into the story, her guilt forcing her to do so. Then it struck him. This was a two sided attack. Abigail would have to, if, say, Nicholas Boyle's body was not hidden and instead given over to the police, exasperate the story of the unhinged Boyle brother to solidify her own innocence, and in doing so, Abigail was, unwittingly, creating a scape-goat for Hemlock to use herself, for the murder of Marissa Schurr.

Boyle had simply lost it, murdered Abigail's friend, who he had seen the previous day, sent a 'message' to the copycat, which had killed his sister, declaring war for the vengeance of a lost sibling, and in the end, gone after the daughter of the man so very much like the man who had slain his sister. All the while, Hemlock could continue on with her work, her now private correspondence and hunt with the copycat, without the prying eyes of the FBI or the police breathing down her neck. There it was. Pretty as a parcel wrapped in a silk bow. All ends tied.

 _Apart from Will Graham._ Will would see right through this. He would see right through everything, given time. And, given Will's unique abilities, this would only ring his alarm bells louder. _Hemlock knew that._ She wasn't trying to deceive him, Hannibal thought, she was only buying time. Enough time to get her to the copycat that, in reality, was standing right beside her this very moment.

But what would happen when the clock struck twelve? When Will _saw_ the truth? Would Hemlock do what was necessary to protect herself and kill Will? No. Hannibal did not think so. She liked Will. More than she was willing to admit and more than she was comfortable with, and more than even she knew or could verbalize. All this, the murders and games, had, in fact, been _for_ Will. Did she know why she was doing this? Again, Hannibal didn't think so, not in its full sincerity, because, standing where he was, knowing what he knew, Hannibal thought this rather looked like a courting gift. For Will or the copycat, however, was the debatable recipient. Hemlock had proven to be more likely to kill those she felt for, Tom Riddle being a point in fact.

Hannibal's heart rate was now at 82, the highest it had been in years. Hemlock kicked away from the door, rolling her hair up and away from her face, stabbing the white stick through the balled mass of curls, holding it into place. Slinking over to Abigail's side, Hemlock squatted down just shy of her side, towards her back, lifting a nimble hand to gently lay on Abigail's quaking shoulder. And, Hannibal thought, what would Will do when he knew the truth? Would Hemlock be another Garret Jacob Hobbs? No. Like Hemlock, like Hannibal, Will did not _do_ easy. What a complex dance they were all beginning.

"Look at him, Abigail. Look at what you did. He was just mourning his sister. The sister your father killed. He was scared and hurting and now, here he is, cold and gone. Gutted like the stags _you_ hunted."

Abigail's trembling picked up, blurring her outline as she fought against the current dragging her under. It was pointless. That current was Hemlock and, Hannibal had seen first hand, she had a strong grip when she wanted to.

"He was going to kill me, I know-"

"No, he wasn't. He only wanted answers. This was not self defence. You slit him from navel to larynx. You _butchered_ him."

Hemlock was laying it on a bit thick, in his humble opinion, but the harsh tug on Abigail's quaking and aching guilt was working. The wound itself, from Hannibal's vantage point, and what he could see through the matting and soaked clothing, was a from kidney and had, yes, there was the flap of plaid, slid up a few inches, likely from the struggle, to rest under ribcage before the knife was pulled free. It was probable that the knife had slipped in the conflict after the initial stab. Nevertheless, Hemlock's own slip gave Hannibal a little morsel to feast on. When she and Will had been working on the inelegantly named mushroom killer, she had only refereed to the cavity as chest and neck, where the mushrooms of victim number four had been most prominent. Now there was a larynx in her vocabulary. His girl had been studying anatomy. Readying for this? Or just curious? Questions, questions, questions.

"I didn't. You have to believe me."

Hemlock's hand fluttered away from Abigail's shoulder to her hair, fiddling with a dark brown lock by the side of her head. Her hand, not once, touched skin. Hemlock was still adverse to physical contact, even the slightest of brushes, so then… Ah. The pictures of the family on the mantle place. Abigail's mother, in the photo's depicting the two, had always had a hand in her daughters hair, quite close to where Hemlock had put her own, a comforting gesture from a comfortable mother. Hemlock was drawing on close memories, ghosts Abigail missed, wearing their skin. Her masks were, as Will said, masterfully crafted in such short time. The photo's had only been turned over and put back an hour before, while they were out. She had only this moment, these few seconds of being in this room, to pick it apart.

"I know. I believe you. I always have. But look at him, Abigail. Do you really think the police are going to believe you did this in self defence? Do you know why I came here? Why Crawford sent both me and Will? We were meant to be looking for clues for your involvement into your father's murders. Crawford already suspects it. So does Alana. I tried holding them back. I tried helping you. But… This… They're going to see this and all they'll see you as is an accessory to the crimes of your father."

And Hemlock was using this mask to show Abigail she was on her side, she had been all along, the diligent mother caring for her shivering lamb. Hannibal, if Hemlock had not been present, would have done the same and, here, there, everywhere, was another reflection. They were in a hall of mirrors. Was she conscious of the fact she was copying _his_ behavioural patterns, or unaware that she had accidental soaked him in? Hemlock's gift, mapping and copying behavioural patterns, it seemed, was as double edged as Will's empathy and imagination. They took in, sometimes unwittingly, and it became a part of them, they took a bit of the darkness back every time they left the shadows for the light of day to play at being normal people. And there Hannibal was, in Hemlock, whether she knew it or not, already a part of her. His heart stood at 89 now, the highest since Inspector Popil and the crude butcher, back when he was Hemlock's age, back when he was new to the game too.

"I wasn't. I wasn't! I-… I-"

Hemlock cut her off with a soft hushing noise.

"I know. But I know how this ends. They'll blame you like they blamed me for Tom. Only, you didn't kill your dad, you didn't do anything to stop it. Will Graham did. That, killing Tom, protected me, but you have no protection. All the blame, all the anger, all the hate, it has to go somewhere and it will go to you. You saw the crowd outside. Didn't you notice the graffiti? It said _cannibals,_ not _cannibal._ Plural, Abigail. You heard the woman too. They're going to come for you Abigail. They're going to burn you at the stake for this."

Now that Hannibal had seen, for himself, that Hemlock did take in the behaviour of those around her, like Will absorbed emotions, adopted it as her own, inadvertently, the crack inside her for Hannibal to slip through ruptured just an inch more and Hannibal could see so clearly, in his mind, Hemlock for who she was. A still pond reflecting anything that peeped into its depths, and like a pond, it had no say in what mirror it took, what features it bounced back, what rippling face it wore. Even here, her speech had taken Abigail's broken tincture. Sentences not fully formed, chopped and crudely stitched together, yet, when she spoke to him, her words were long, elegant, paintings described through metaphor and sweet analogies. And she was completely unaware of it all. The meaning behind it all was her own, she had her own personality, opinion and beliefs, but she could only ever act through others behaviour, mapped and stored away in that brilliant mind of hers.

As Will had difficulty identifying what foul emotions where his or who he tracked, Hemlock could not determine what actions were exclusively her own or those she had caught in her own hunts. _What would happen if she was solely around him for a long period of time?_ _Or Will?_ Mmm. He would have to have a discussion with Doctor Bloom and Crawford when they arrived back in Baltimore. Emotions spilled like ink on blood splotches, and then sucked back in, mingling into one, black and red to burgundy, and it was _beautiful._ 91.

Well, Hannibal had always worked in sounders of three, did he not? Here was another trinity. Hannibal Will. Hemlock. He rather liked the thought of that. A tad too much, but that introspection could come later. Hemlock would like that too, with her insatiable need for 'balance'. Will would not be far behind. Where one went, the other followed, and Will, as much as he denied it to himself and to anyone who would eventually ask, for all his already improper thoughts and feelings, had come to, rather inappropriately, desire Hemlock as well. Hannibal saw that all too clearly too. And, in the end, it would not take much work, would it? Hannibal already had a step in the door, in Will's emotions, in Hemlock's behaviour, right there, he was already in, and the two were already bleeding into one another, a limbic system rooted in mind and heart, and he, the lizard part of the brain that secured survival and instinct.

"It was an accident… I tried… But he grabbed me and there was a knife in my hand and… I didn't..."

Hemlock pulled away from Abigail, waving her hand around them.

"I can make this all go away."

Finally, Abigail looked at Hemlock.

"How?"

Yes. That was the most pressing question, wasn't it? How? If Hannibal was to do, or say, or act in any way, he first needed to know Hemlock's limitations, abilities, anything she could use against him. Know thy enemy, or, in this case, know what thy covet.

"You saw me upstairs, didn't you? The red light?"

Abigail nodded and Hannibal crept into the room, his shoes silent on the carpeted floor as he settled behind the pair. Once again, Hemlock clicked and the change was instant. No more blood. Not in a large puddle on the carpet. Not splashed in an arch on the wall. No where. Not a drop. Only on Abigail it stood starkly in the dark light of the living room, a reminder left of her sins. The stick was a conduit. It _was_ Hemlock. 95. Mischa in a tin bathtub.

"I'm special. Like Tom. Like the rare few others out there. I can do things, Abigail. I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if, I want to."

The vases on the mantle floated up, dancing in the air, as did the dining room chairs, Boyle's body, the cushions on the sofa, books laying on coffee table, up, up and away, swirling like a forming tornado above their heads as Hannibal, on instinct, dropped down on his haunches to miss the flying bible nearly smacking into his temple as it flew across the room to join its dancing brethren.

The patio door, open just an inch, allowed in a grass snake, a green little fellow of shiny scales and gleaming fangs, as it slithered over to Hemlock who, without ever taking her eyes away from Abigail, lowered her hand for the creature to coil and wrap around, hissing as Hemlock hissed back. Then it contorted, unnaturally, squirming, more earthworm than regal snake, hissing and crying as it, with a snap, seemingly imploded in on itself, and in Hemlocks hand was nothing but a writhing ball of bloodied scale and shattered rib and spine bone. With another blink, it was on fire, ashes in the air, gone, not even a smear of residue on her palm.

Then everything was flying back, right back to where it came from, settling and thunking, the blood back in startling contrast and hue, and no one would have ever known, if they did not see it with their own eyes, these things of everyday mundane life once flew and vanished on the touch of magic. The air hung heavy with that smell of crackling energy, so much so, it was all Hannibal could breathe, in dark rattling eyes, Hemlock was all he could see. He had been right. If magic had a smell, he had thought, it would be this and… 101, the taste of Mischa on his tongue.

"And I can make problems go away. As if they never happened. I can make it all go away. I can point the anger and the hate to someone else. I can help you, if you ask me to. All you have to do is ask, Abigail. You have a choice. You can tell them you were defending yourself, when you gutted this man, or we can make this problem someone else's."

This changed everything. The sounder of three, the trinity, was no longer an option, not to Hannibal. It was the _only_ conclusion. Hannibal had always been a man of science, facts and logic. Magic was a long disputed contemptuous idea birthed from ignorance and superstition. Nevertheless, Hannibal trusted his senses more than anything else. He knew what he saw. What he felt. What he _smelt._ As implausible as it was, there, before him, was something outside his grasp of understanding. Of course, there was likely an entirely scientific explanation waiting to be discovered, which he would come to himself, perhaps a mutation in the genes? Atomic manipulation? A subsect of evolution that allowed one strain of humanity to germinate differently?

Either way, without this knowledge currently, all Hannibal could call it was _magic_. And he _craved_ it. The possibilities. They say, when you get older, the world gets smaller, and to some extent Hannibal had found this saying to be true. Everything became routine, quantifiable, blissfully boring. Yet, with a flick of her pretty wrist, Hemlock had atrophied the world larger than Hannibal had ever thought possible, with so much he had not thought, so much to experience and understand, to see and do. And he wanted it all. _He wanted Hemlock._

"Can you… Can you make… _him_ go away?"

Abigail asked as she gestured towards Boyle, back on the floor, in the exact position he had been in previously before his little flying trip. Hemlock smiled.

"Yes. But, we shouldn't do that. Remember the crowd outside? The plural? The anger? There needs to be a diversion, an outlet, something to take their focus away from you so you can go back to having a normal life. Doesn't that sound nice, Abigail? A normal life filled with normal things and normal days? No more living in the shadow of your father? I can give you that if you ask."

Abigail stuttered, an injured seal bleeding in the vast sea, and like the great white she was, Hemlock sniffed out the blood.

"How do we..."

And bit.

"Freddie Lounds told Nicholas where you were, Abigail. She gave him the address and aimed him right at you just for a story to print. That's all you are to her. A story. She's dangerous. She'll keep asking questions. She'll keep digging. She won't stop. She'll find out what you did. She's a problem. And what do we do with problems?"

There it was. Hemlock would use Freddie as a patsy for this, for Abigail, and in turn, both Nicholas and Abigail would be a whipping boy for herself, and with Nicholas dead, there would be no questioning for him, and her fall-guy, apart from Will, was air tight. That was why she wanted Freddie's card, why she told the redhead to stay close and wait for her call. Dominoes falling one by one. He was seeing the pattern now. A noose swinging on a scaffold. The hangman coming to call. Hannibal wanted that too. He wanted everything Hemlock could give. He had always had a big appetite.

"We make them go away."

Abigail answered and the last domino fell.

"Good girl. So, how about we make both Nicholas and Freddie go away? How about we aim that hatred somewhere it is deserved to be? I can do that, if you ask for my help."

"Why? Why do you want to help me?"

Hemlock's mouth opened, but then stalled. Blink. Blink. Blink. Closed. She looked confused. Truly befuddled. She knew she was, in a round about way, doing this for Will, while also feeding into her own appetite for balance and bloodshed, but why was she doing this for Will? Why? Hemlock, by the momentary shock and confusion, did not know herself. Hannibal did. He had known since watching the two circling around, bouncing off one another back in Crawford's office. Earth and lightning touching down, electric attraction in action. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be as amusing to give the game away too soon, and so, Hannibal kept silent. Hemlock's mask was strapped back on and she was looking as innocent as a child with cookie crumbs all over her mouth and sticky chocolate on her fingers.

"Why wouldn't I?"

Hemlock delved a hand into her pocket, pulling out Freddie's business card. She flicked it around her fingers, like one would bounce a coin between knuckles, around and over, showing Abigail the face and number before snatching it away in dizzying intervals. Yes. No. Yes. No. Make a decision. The clock is ticking. It was silent for a long while before Abigail managed to pull her gaze away from the swinging card, deadlocking with Hemlock's own emerald eyes.

"Can you help me, please?"

Hemlock smiled lightly as she stood up and walked over to the landline perched on the side table by the living room sofa, plucking it up from the cradle. She scanned the card once before tapping in the numbers, burning the card with nothing but a thought after memorizing the number, holding the phone to her ear. It rang only three times before there was a muffled voice from the other side.

"Miss Lounds? This is Hemlock, I was wondering if you could meet me around the back of the Hobbs house? You can? Brilliant."

* * *

 _Freddie Lounds P.O.V_

"Please, stop! Don't do this!"

Freddie Lounds's heart thundered in her chest, more rapid than even her skittering steps. The twigs and sharp pebbles dug into the soft skin of her knees as she stumbled up the drive-way, falling, crashing, wincing as the hand in her hair wound tighter, heaving her up. The hand twisted viciously, snapping her head back and Freddie let out a short, keen cry of pain as her scalp thrummed at the pressure. Why was no one doing anything? She was screaming, pleading, and the police were just down the driveway, right there, and they weren't turning around, looking for the cause of the screams and pleas, as if she and Hemlock were invisible. Her face loomed out of the dark night around them, half aflame by the orange porch-light. But nothing, nought, could outshine those unnatural green eyes.

"If you don't stop struggling, I'm going to remove a limb. Do you understand?"

Hemlock Potter looked so calm, her voice mildly chiding like a mother speaking to her babe and Freddie couldn't put the young woman she had met in that hospital room to the same person who had lured her here, dragged her through the woods, threatened bodily mutilation as if telling her if she didn't eat her greens, it was time out. Before Freddie could plead some more, ask, beg, damn, even snivel, the shorter, younger woman was dragging her towards the old Hobbs's residence front door. Just as they landed on the porch, Freddie nearly losing balance once more, the front door swung open and Freddie nearly cried from relief.

"Abigail! Oh, Abigail! Help, call the police!... Abigail?"

The brunette stood there, watching, leaning against the door, and it was then that Freddie saw it. The blood. On her shirt. On her hands, up Abigail's arms. Hemlock didn't hesitate, releasing her hold on Freddie's hair, she locked her fingers into the collar of her shirt before Freddie could bolt and was shoving her through the door, down the hall way. Behind her, Freddie could hear Abigail follow and her soft, slightly tremulous voice echoed after them, playing catch up to Hemlocks swift march.

"What are you going to do to her?"

Once again, Freddie cried out as Hemlock came to a doorway and booted her into the room. Freddie fell, her knees flaring in pain, her elbows too as her head bounced off the hardwood flooring. The world swam, so many colours, swirling, dancing and Freddie couldn't find her footing as she scrambled on the floor like a fish. Something wet and thick was making her lose any grip she could form. When the world stopped spinning, Freddie came face to face with reality. The wetness… It was a puddle of cooling blood.

Nicholas Boyle, the brother to the murdered girl, the man Freddie herself had given this exact address to, laid staring blankly at her, stomach split open like a ripe pumpkin. Freddie cried out, tried to push away, but a shoe, Hemlock's, planted itself onto her back and stamped her onto the floor like a butterfly pinned to a collector's parchment paper.

"Nothing she will remember. Now, be quiet. I have to concentrate. The last thing we need right now is for me to botch her memories and leave her a babbling mess that believes she's a goat."

Botch her memories? What was she going to do? What was happening? A story… All Freddie wanted was a story, she never intended for herself to be a part of it, though. With tears blossoming in her eyes, Freddie turned her neck as far as it could and stared up at the woman… Child really, that was keeping her still and trapped.

"You won't get away with this."

Hemlock smiled at her, as she reached up and behind her head, towards her bun and slowly pulled free the long, white stick she had holding her hair up. Her curls flopped down, all tangles and rebellion, as she aimed the tip of the wooden stick right at Freddie's face. It wasn't a knife. It wasn't a gun. Just a stick. A stick! And still, something lurched in Freddie's gut, something screamed in the back of her mind and her blood ran cold. As cold and tauntingly biting as Hemlock's voice had become.

"No… Actually, it will be you who won't get away with this. Look at what you did Freddie… Look at who you killed… You slit him from naval to sternum…"

Freddie's breathing became erratic, her fingers clawing into the wood and the shoe pressed down harder as Hemlock dropped to her haunches to jab the stick into her temple. The wood felt frigid, abnormally so.

"I didn't do anything! I-"

The tip of the stick trailed downwards, curving across Freddie's cheekbone and jawline to tickle at the underneath of her chin before it was savagely butting in, forcing Freddie to tilt her head back unless she wanted the stick to tear into the soft skin there. Not once did Hemlock's gaze ever leave Freddie's own.

"Oh, didn't you? You're a reporter, aren't you? You like good stories. Well, Miss Lounds, you're about to become a headline yourself. How does victims grieving brother slain in struggle with news reporter sound? You did, after all, lead him here."

Freddie's body began to shiver, a tear fell and her mind was jumbled. Run. She needed to get away. Crazy. They were all crazy.

"I-I-… I didn't kill him! I didn't do this! No one will believe you!"

Hemlock chuckled and Freddie wanted to cry as the stick went back to pressing into her temple, grinding.

"They won't have to believe me. They'll believe you when you confess."

No. It wouldn't end like this. It couldn't. Frantically, Freddie's eyes darted around the room looking for anything, anyone to help. They landed on a shadow in the very corner of the living room, a lonely watcher standing guard. Observing. Freddie went to shout, to ask for help, but all her words and pleas died on her tongue as Dr Hannibal Lecter simply cocked his head and smiled. His face, that lopsided grin, those dark eyes, were the last thing Freddie saw before Hemlock was whispering in her ear and the world burst to black.

"Imperio."

* * *

 _Hannibal's P.O.V_

"Can you go over your statement once more, Miss Lounds?"

Hannibal canted his head forward as a medic wrapped one of those thin, scratchy grey blankets around his shoulders, giving him the silent nod of dismissal. Standing up from the back of the ambulance, Hannibal stepped down and over to one of the police cars, close enough to the last ambulance to eavesdrop on Freddie Lounds who, strapped to a gurney, was being questioned by two police officers and one of Crawford's men in a cheap beige trench coat. The Hobbs residency was abuzz in movement, officers with torches slinking through dense woods, trying to pick up on trails of blood. The front door opening with a creak as a body bag on chrome wheels was wheeled out by two sickly looking morgue workers. Doctor Alana Bloom in the spare ambulance he had vacated, another medic, light being flickered into her eyes to ensure her concussion wasn't too severe. Abigail Hobbs surrounded by two FBI agents, one handing her a hot paper cup of tea as the other rubbed a hand up and down her back consolingly. Hemlock had the last ambulance of the three, and from his angle, he could neither see nor hear her, though, he supposed, they would be working on her thigh.

"I told you. I was covering the Minnesota Shrike case, I was approached by Nicholas Boyle about my article on his sister. I didn't know how deranged he was. I swear it. I just thought if I gave him the address, if I could be there when he questioned Abigail Hobbs, I could… I could..."

The detective scribbled down a few notes before jabbing back.

"Run a story?"

Freddie Lounds's shoulder was a mess of hastily wrapped bandages, and still, crimson was seeping through the pristine white. Hemlock had really did a number on that joint. Hannibal wouldn't be too surprised if Miss Lounds never regained full mobility from the joint.

"Yes. But then I heard about the murder in the Hobbs cabin. The girl with her head cut off? And I remember… I remember Boyle saying the whole world had snakes in their bellies. Lies. Filled with lies like big pythons and… I was rooting around… I found the morgue report… There was a python sewn alive inside her, Marissa Schurr, wasn't there? I came back, thinking he might attack Abigail, I was going to warn someone, but they kept pushing me behind the police line and no one was listening. I knew he would come back. There was a darkness in his eyes. I was just trying to..."

The snake was a good touch, Hannibal would admit. Only the morgue workers who had conducted the autopsy knew that a python had been stitched inside Marissa Schurr. Even he, Will, and Crawford had not been informed of those turn of events yet. The only ones who could possibly know would be those who had worked on Marissa, the killer, and whoever the killer had told or boasted to. Having Freddie regurgitate the knowledge of the snake, having Nicholas Boyle hint at the happenchance, only secured the conviction in Nicholas Boyle's guilt which was staggeringly being built rapidly.

"So you broke into the Hobbs house?"

"Yes. I snuck around the back and came in through the back door. Dr Bloom was already unconscious and I heard a scream. I ran down stairs and Abigail Hobbs was running past me. Nicholas had a knife and I panicked. He was shouting that he was going to cut the bitches head off."

"And this is the time Miss Potter became involved?"

"Yes. She was on the floor, I think she was stabbed somewhere, the thigh? Her leg was covered in blood, but she got back up, she jumped at him, but he threw her off. Doctor Lecter was getting up too, there was a broken vase beside him. I think Boyle had smashed it over his head on the way down. But Hemlock smashed into him when Boyle threw her off his back and the two went sailing over the sofa and I heard the table smash and-"

Hemlock had been meticulous in setting the stage. Floating the knife, wanting the serrated edges to match her wound should the paramedic's dig too deep, she had flew it into her own right thigh, at an angle she could not hold herself, but _could_ magic, to make it seem as if Nicholas had scrabbled with her, slipped and missed her stomach, stabbing thigh instead. Of course, that was after she had trailed the house, flipping furniture with a wave of her hand, blasting photo frames off walls, and knocking over tables, to display a struggle that had never taken place, not wanting to track her own blood around the house before it was due to be tracked in just the right spots to match the narrative.

She had even snipped a bit of his and her hair and left it, with a spot of their blood, on the corner of the coffee table, over the overturned sofa, where, 'unconscious', the two had been found by police officers in a bed of broken wood and shattered glass. She had even thought of dusting some vase fragments into his hair for the paramedic, who had been tending to his head, to find in the back of the ambulance, which they had and promptly bagged as evidence.

The largest shard had Nicholas Boyle's finger print magicked on. Price would pick that thread up later when he dusted for prints, and Nicholas's guilt would become concrete. However, the bruise on Hannibal's temple was nothing more than an illusion, swished on with Hemlock's stick, wand, she had called it. Yet, the cut to the back of his head, where it had 'struck the corner of the coffee table', as with hers, was real, hesitantly given by Hemlock as she had needed real blood and some real wounds to work with to craft her little narrative.

She had been contrarily apologetic as she had gently parted his hair, held the tip of her stick to his scalp and sliced, deep but not too deep, nothing but a sting, she could make it look deeper and worse than what it truly was, she had said. She had been less hesitant and gentle with her own wounds, rather savage actually, unflinching as she aimed her wand at her own head and blasted with a hot purple light. The blood had dribbled down her neck, settling in her collarbone, Hannibal remembered. Right before they fixed down and played at being asleep, two fallen heroes protecting an innocent girl running for her life. Hemlock was a natural story teller, it seemed. A bit of an aggravating flare for the dramatics, but bluntly poetic in her own way. Vladimir Nabokov intermingled with Mark Twain.

"Boyle was found outside the Hobbs home, in the woods out back. How did he get out there?"

"I told Abigail to run. I threw another vase at him. Got his attention. He chased after me and Abigail ran out the front door. That's when she ran for you. To get help. I tried to run out back, to get to the woods. I thought I could loose him in there."

"But you didn't, did you?"

"No. He caught up to me. I remember him slashing my arm. I remember the pain and a flash of green-… Red. A flash of red. I think it was my own blood. We fell to the floor. He was trying to cut my head off. I was struggling and then we were rolling and..."

"And somehow, Nicholas Boyle ended up with a fatal wound to his abdomen."

"I don't know how. I can't remember much. We were rolling and… The flash of red… My arm..."

Two uniformed officers pulled away from the little group gathered around the body bag, trailing towards the three questioning Freddie Lounds. It was the middle and shortest one that spoke from beneath a bristled moustache, voice aged beyond his years from the cigarettes he smoked consecutively.

"The wreckage in the house matches what she's told us. So does the area in the woods where Boyle's body was found. Abigail Hobbs, Hemlock Potter's, and Doctor Lecter's statements match too. Forensics will tell the rest."

Lounds, for once in her life, sounded afraid and uncertain.

"Am I going to be arrested?"

The leading inspector didn't mince his words, not like he minced his wardrobe with cheap knock-offs from market stalls in hopes of fitting an apery of his department's head, Jack Crawford.

"You need medical treatment for the wound to your shoulder joint, Miss Lounds. However, you will be under police guard until, by medical approval, it is acceptable to bring you into the station for further questioning and, perhaps, to await trail."

The paramedics around her were already unlocking the gurney's legs, kicking up chrome wheels to slide her back into the ambulance.

"It was self defence! He was insane!"

"That will be up for the judge to decide."

The inspector prodded as the two men beside him departed and heaved themselves into the back of the ambulance along with Freddie and the paramedics, the cold, thick doors clanking shut with a crank of the handles locking, cutting off Freddie's frenzied rebuttal. Someone stepped up beside him, their footsteps uneven, one dragging in the gravel. Injured. Right leg. Hemlock. Pulling into his side, close enough their arms nearly brushed, draped in identical grey blankets, the two watched as the ambulance pulled away, Freddie's face streaming with tears through the small glass slats in the back, their last sight as it turned the corner of the drive way.

"I guess you have questions."

Hemlock only spoke when the ambulance was completely out of sight, siren blaring softly in the distance, heading towards the nearest hospital.

"Many."

He could feel her shrug by the warm wash of air by his side.

"Well, I have just been traumatized by another serial killer, the sociopath who butchered Marissa Schurr. I'm sure Alana will push for me to have a therapy session when we get back to Baltimore to talk about my experiences and feelings. Seems like the perfect time for questions. I don't suppose I need to say not to… Well, no one will believe you anyway. That's the positive of being what I am. No one will believe a word you or Abigail say."

There was no threat in her voice. She wasn't warning him. She, in fact, seemed bittersweet about it. _No one will believe you, and I am sorry they won't._ It was like she had told them the greatest joke of all time, only, they would never get to share the punchline. Not with any soul but herself, and she was sorry she had curbed them that way, sorry she had ruined every other joke forever, sorry she had come along and smashed their tiny world into flyspeck shards. Perhaps Abigail would feel that way. Hannibal didn't. He was _salivating_.

"And what is it exactly that you are?"

Hannibal looked down at her, so small, so unmindfully _powerful_ ,barely up to his shoulder, still staring out at the road, her green eyes glinting red in the throbbing lights of the cop cars around them. The blood was still on her, black in this light, painting half her face and thin neck onyx. Red eyes and black skin, she was half monster, half human. A Nephilim rendered in pulsing light.

"What are any of us, doctor Lecter? Captured by this fancy, where all that we see, or seem, is but a dream within a dream."

Edgar Allen Poe; A dream within a dream. A poem dramatizing the confusion felt by the narrator as he watches the important things in life slip away, realizing he cannot hold on to even one grain of sand, he is led to his final question to whether all things are just a dream. Hemlock's adrenalin was waning now, the thrill of it all, the chase, and Hemlock was only left with the question that had plagued her in the house. Why? It would eat at her, Hannibal knew, this phantom why hanging above her head like a noose. _The Noose._ She was changing, had changed, and she didn't, or couldn't, understand the why of it. She couldn't understand the why of Will Graham, why she had reacted so impulsively to the perceived threat to him, why it should bother her at all if he was threatened by this 'copycat', or why she had trusted Hannibal with what she had tonight, or why she was becoming what she had always been becoming.

Why. Why. Why. Like the grains of sand, it was slipping through her fingers. _She_ was slipping through her fingers, the old her dead, and that, well, it was a hard realisation to come to, as Hannibal had to, once, struggle to find after Mischa. She would get there, he knew, as he had once done. Hannibal lifted his own hand and held it out to her, palm up, fingers splayed, pale in the light. He would help her find the why.

"You're not losing anything, yourself included, but finding. It is hard, and it hurts, and it breaks you in ways you never thought you could be broken. You'll find yourself doing and saying things you never thought you would ever say or do. But you will grow. You will be you. And you'll find your world a bigger and brighter place for it. You are not alone Hemlock. Not any more. Tom is gone, but I am here."

It was the most truthful Hannibal had been in years. And Hannibal would not be so achingly alone either. Not with Hemlock and Will. Three of the same. Balance. Slowly, Hemlock reached up and clasped his hand, fingers locking through his own like weeds breaking through pavement, tight but thin. It was the first time she had willingly touched someone, from what Hannibal had seen, of her own violation without any ulterior motive. Only comfort and acceptance. Their clasped hands fell to their side, meshed still, and Hannibal shirked off his blanket to rest over both their shoulders, heat bleeding into more heat in the chilly night air, their own little cocoon of sanctuary.

"I'll tell you everything. But later. Away. Where the ground and trees don't have ears. At the moment, I'm just… Tired."

Hemlock sank into his side, fitting underneath his arm, the high rise of the blanket from his taller shoulders cutting her face in half, only green eyes peeking over edge, a butterfly only half emerging from its chrysalis. What beauty would she bring when she had fully broken out? Marvellous.

"Do you wish to head back to the motel? Alana is staying until Crawford arrives on scene, with Abigail, but you can come stay with me, if you wish? Will is waiting back there. He rang while you were being attended to by the paramedics after Crawford had informed him of what transpired, but could not come as Crawford ordered him back until the area has been swept over by forensics. He seemed most worried."

Hannibal felt her shift, through guilt at having Will feel worried about something she had done to herself and others, or because her leg pained her, for she had stabbed herself right down to the hilt of the knife, perhaps both, but Hannibal shifted too, allowed her to balance herself off his side, taking her weight off her injured leg.

"Just us three?"

She asked.

"Just us three."

Hannibal thought the crease by her eye might mean she was smiling.

"I'd like that."

The rumble of gravel under tire made Hannibal chuckle as he saw the little silver car swerve around the nook of the road, up onto the driveway with a screech of rubber burning.

"It would appear Will has grown tired of waiting."

The engine cut, and as Hannibal had suspected, Will, half dressed in T-shirt and jeans, rolled out.

"Hemlock?! Hannibal?!"

An officer tried to catch him, but Will flashed his badge and pushed through, and the officer backed down. Hannibal did note it was Hemlock and himself Will was calling for, not Crawford. Not Alana. Not Abigail. _Hemlock_ _and Hannibal_ _._ For two of the smartest people he knew, they, Will and Hemlock, were entirely too blind to their own emotional and behavioural patterns. Hannibal shifted once more, taking most of Hemlock's weight as he began to lead them down to Will.

"How about we cut him off, yes? It would appear he's forgotten his shoes."

"Never mind that, his shirt is a pyjama top and on backwards. It's three in the morning. He's going to catch a bloody cold."

* * *

Well, here's chapter Nine! I really hope you all like it and it lived up to your expectations! I know I had quite a lot of fun writing this one up. Romance does start to pick up next chapter, but, don't fear, they're not just going to hop right into bed.

 _ **THANK YOU**_ for all the follows, favourites and of course, the reviews! You guys have all been so wonderful and lovely and I hope, at least one part of this chapter, has made you guys smile as a thank you for all the kind words.

As always, if you have a moment, please drop a review off, they keep my muses spinning on their heads.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER SEVEN: SUGAR QUILLS: PART TWO**

* * *

"Do you dream, Will?"

The husky voice, gilt with slumber, drifted in from the passenger side of Will Graham's little car. In the tiny cab, it stirred the air warmer than his chugging air conditioning system that rattled every time he turned the left signal on. Hemlock Potter was like that, though, Will thought. Hot and burning, she filled spaces. Slight, large, cramped and wide, she ostensibly shed her flesh and scattered out like sun streams, filling all niches and cleft's with her glistening presence.

But not that night. Not in that little cab. There was something… _Different_ about her. Cooler. Sharper. There was no glimmer of sunlight leaking out of her, but moon-rays. Hemlock was sitting beside him, buckled into the passenger seat, and yet, she appeared so very far away. Will thought, as the waning sun sank and the looming moon was beginning its climb, it could have been twilight itself that made it feel that way. Night seemed to do that.

Isolate and segregate.

Or, Will supposed, as he shook his head from his rambling, incoherent thoughts, it could have been the eight hour drive it was taking to push back to Baltimore that was playing with Will's sense of space and light. Nothing made someone more poetic, more digressive and pretentious, than lack of sleep, the last of their Advil dissolving in their gut, and three espressos.

Take Will's word for gospel on that one.

However, there was certainly something shifted with Hemlock. In her hands was a single rose, one stolen from the welcoming desk of the hotel they had been staying at while they were trying to sort the Hobbs cabin. Prior to Dante's seventh circle of hell breaking loose and ending with a dead Boyle, an injured reporter and Hannibal, Abigail, Alana and Hemlock in the back of ambulances, wrapped like monks in thin, grey medical blankets, that is. He had watched her nab it as they left for their long journey home. Just one. Something to fiddle with. Hemlock didn't do well sitting still for long patches of time.

He watched as she plucked a petal free, balanced it on the very tip of her forefinger, inspected it closely with those bright eyes of hers, side to side, as if, hidden in the crimson tissue, there be the answers to all her silent questions. Leisurely, she would raise her hand up to her car door window, open just a crack, as the wind sucked the petal out and down the darkening highway.

Perhaps it was not answers the petals held, but secrets. Again and again, petal after petal faded into the distance like the vanishing sun being consumed by the horizon. The dying sun-rays slopping the petals black in the growing dimness outside. Will thought, with those little black petals, scraps of his sanity were being sucked away too.

Maybe, just maybe, something hadn't shifted in Hemlock… But in _him._

Why? Because there was just that dying light between them in that small cab now, and one long, pale leg propped up straight on the dash, bandage already looking like it needed to be changed, and all he could fucking think about was moonlight. There was a billion other things to consider. A million more problems to resolve. A thousand and one questions to answer. Yet, here Will Graham sat, wondering exactly when and how, and if anybody else could see, Hemlock had moonbeams gushing beyond her skin, in the very core of her. Where, he supposed further, a more devout man might think a soul would rest.

Don't get Will wrong. It might seem like a pretty metaphor, to say someone was made of moonbeams, but he meant it in no such way. It might seem, under certain angles, romantic or mawkish, or an ode to their beauty written by a preschooler. But Will was not romantic, not in the traditional sense, as Hemlock was not beautiful in the conventional way.

Alana was beautiful, as foxes and robins were. Abigail was beautiful in they way of fresh spring and deer's creeping through forests. Hemlock Potter was not beautiful. No one, he thought, would ever say she was. Beautiful… Beautiful seemed far too much of a passive and docile word to ever fit someone like Hemlock Potter, with her pressing presence that was always ten times her size. No. You didn't call a jaguar beautiful, you called it _haunting._ There was a fear, ingrained, to be found in that sort of beauty. There was the same fear to be found in Hemlock's too sharp features, moonbeam skin, and piercing, slanting grin.

A well-earned fear.

Contrarily, right then and there, Hemlock still in her pajamas from this morning, a pair of baggy shorts and a t-shirt, the only loose clothing she had packed for their ill-conceived and thought short journey, her small bag packed away in the trunk, and in the backseat, crisscrossed like a pair of fencing swords, a pair of new crutches, Minnesota hospital stickers still affixed to the rubber stoppers, bandaged and bleeding and bruised, there _should_ have been nothing remotely like fear to taste in the air.

Yet, Will nearly choked on it.

Hemlock would need those crutches for the next fortnight, perhaps two. The wound on her leg too severe to walk unaided, should she tear the stitches and permanently damage the muscle. The gash to her head was bruised now, purple and blue and sickly green. More bruises cluttered her cheekbone, down her arm, constellations mapping, from where she crashed into the table. The baggy clothes made her seem small, so very fucking small. There was nothing to fear, and yet, there was everything to fear.

Will had not been there.

Will had done nothing.

Will had been sleeping.

He had been asleep while Alana, one of his oldest friends, got knocked out. While Hannibal was tossed into a table, head bashed in with a vase, injured, dazed. While Abigail had been hunted around her own house, yet again, screaming and fleeing and sobbing. While Hemlock had been bleeding out, stabbed, broken on the floor…

Will had not been there, Hemlock and Hannibal had paid the price, and it terrified him.

No. He didn't think sleep would come easy to him again for some time. Then again, it never had, had it? Will Graham and sleep had never been friends. Some days, he would even call them enemies. Nevertheless, now, anew, there would be new scenes and images to haunt him in the sun set hours. A house in the woods filled with Garret Jacob Hobbs's dead gaze, vase shards in sandy, blood clotted hair, and a long, pale, bleeding leg.

But, he reminded himself, they were alive. Alive, breathing, and, relatively speaking, in one piece. Hannibal himself was currently five cars ahead of him on the interstate, carrying a concussed Alana and a still jittery Abigail. Alana had originally wanted to go with Hemlock and Will, for obvious reasons, but Hannibal had subtly pulled her to the side, hinted that Hemlock might need space away, she didn't do well with crowding after all, and reluctantly, with a kiss to the bruised cheek and demand for Will to call her should Hemlock need her, the younger doctor had acquiesced.

So here they were, Hemlock and him, the girl made from moonbeams and the man with nightmares for lullabies, in a cab paradoxically too big and too small, and one tauntingly long, pale leg glimmering in the dusk. Will pretended he wasn't watching her from the corner of his eye. He pretended he didn't see her blow another petal away, this one needing a little bit of a helping hand. He pretended he didn't notice how his throat constricted, tight, as her lips puckered. He pretended his hands didn't flex on the steering wheel, leather creaking.

Will was getting good at pretending now, because, he told himself, it was guilt over the bandage swathed around her leg that caused this plummeting feeling in the pit of his stomach. Nothing more. And if, as he spoke next, his voice was just a bit rougher around the edges, sand roiling in the tide, it was remorse, for not being there to help her… Help _them,_ lurking in his voice. Nothing else.

 _Nothing else._

"I do, yes. I believe most people dream, Hemlock."

Hemlock stared down at the half mangled rose in her hand, spinning the stem between her nimble fingers. Around and around it went, and oddly, Will had some sympathy for that tattered, tumbling rose. Another petal gone. Another shred of sanity.

Whatever was affecting him, lack of sleep, the thought he could have lost so many people yesterday, when he had so little in his life already, Hemlocks ceaseless but mindless plucking and blowing, she, herself, did not seem so inflicted. In fact, she seemed remote. Adrift almost. She the petal being caught in the wind, and he the frayed rose left behind, away but… Peaceful. The most peaceful, Will thought, he had ever seen the usually chaotic woman-… Girl, she was _only_ seventeen, since he had met her.

"I dream in pulses. Flickers and bursts. Like one of those old camera's, but the flash doesn't work. Undulating. It's… Bittersweet. To dream like that. I can never hold onto it, no matter how hard I bloody try to. It's there one moment, so vivid, but with a blink, before I can fully take it in, it's always gone. A firework of colour and feeling and beauty… Gone in a wink. I would like to dream like others say they do, I think."

Will glanced over to her fully, saw her face lifted up to the window, temple resting on glass, rose now laying limp in her lap, and he was inexplicably and irreversibly struck with moonlight. Not comet dust or shooting stars. There was no cracked crystal or dangling spectres. That was what was different this day. Hemlock didn't seem so… Volatile. Frenzied. She wasn't hurtling through space, chasing and crashing, but hanging high. Floating. Fixed. Larger than ever before.

Moonlight, sweet and soothing and singular.

They used to believe insanity was caused by the moon and it's different phases. Will had half a mind to agree with them right then, because, suddenly, he's talking. He's talking and he doesn't know why. He has an overpowering sense that he _shouldn't_ be saying a word of it. Something is squirming hot in his gut. But he does. He talks. Worse, as perverse as this too-big-too-small cab, he doesn't want to take a single word of it back.

"Well, whenever you miss dreams, simply ask and I'll share mine. I can't promise they will be interesting. I mostly dream of my dogs and fishing, but… But you can have them."

Suddenly, she's looking at him with those bright eyes. Suddenly, she's smiling. Suddenly, it's all so very bright and blinding. _Suddenly._ The best things in life, Will knew, were those that came suddenly. Yet, he forcibly reminded himself, so did the worse. Abrupt things were double edged swords. A bit like Hemlock, in truth. A tad more like himself too. You couldn't control sudden things. There was a merited dread to be found there too, in the sudden. The sudden, jaguars, moonbeams and Hemlock, where fear prowled in intuition.

"Really?"

And still, Will found himself nodding along, tearing his gaze away from Hemlock, back to the road, back to where things made sense and weren't so bright or blinding. Sleep. He needed sleep. Or whisky and Winston.

"Really."

The air swung. It was the only way Will could describe it. There was a heaviness to it, weighty like marble, rigid and tense, and like the marble's veins of gold that splintered like spiderwebs in gritty attics, the long space between them too fractured with candour.

"Will… Can I ask you another question?"

Will chuckled, feeling better at being on known ground, away from his scrambled mind, distanced from moonlight, jaguars and sudden things. Hemlock, he knew, would ask whether he said yes or no. Perhaps, he thought with another shake of his head lightened by his still echoing chuckle, she would be more likely to ask if he _did_ say no. She did that, Will noticed. Provoked uncomfortable hard questions just to make it awkward and tricky for a kick. For someone who suffered from social anxiety, it was nice to have someone around who purposefully set out to make things clumsy from the get-go, just because they found it funny.

It took some of the heat of him when he did it by mistake.

Hemlock, Will knew, saw that too. Perhaps that is why she did it. Perhaps not. You could never tell with Hemlock.

"I'll try my best."

She licked her lips in a fast sweep of pink tongue, he could see from the corner of his eye, but her own gaze never trailed away from her dark window. She was watching something. Intensely. She didn't make him wait long to understand precisely what that, or should he say who, that was.

"Do you trust doctor Lecter?"

Will blinked and frowned from behind his thick rimmed glasses. He darted a glance to the half-hidden car pulling even further ahead five cars in front. The lorry passing them would completely cut off doctor Lecter's car from sight soon.

"I-… Yes? As much as I trust any psychologist whose job is to dig around my head, I suppose. So, perhaps, not very much."

She didn't laugh at his poor joke, and it translated his ensuing snicker out of place and in bad taste, like glee at a funeral. Hemlock merely sat there, staring, watching, pin-pricked pupil, even as the lorry hauled in front, as if she could see through the metal and rubber right to Hannibal's skull. There was a ripple to her taut, angled cheek, teeth working at supple flesh.

"Hemlock? Did he… Did Lecter say something? Do something that made you… Uneasy?"

The question sipped like battery acid. Blistering and artificial. Will didn't think Lecter would do anything, say anything… But, Will was not blind. Of course he had seen how close the two had become. Effortless smiles and easier words from a typically belligerent and explosive Hemlock. The relaxed touches to shoulders. More crucially, the way Hemlock _let_ Lecter place a hand on her shoulder without shirking it off.

The way Hannibal watched her.

In reality, it was the sole peek into the guarded doctor's mind Will had come across so far. Those moments when he watched Hemlock. When he thought no one was watching _him_. But Will watched. Will _saw_. Lecter was interested, and Will used that word lightly, for it was the only word vaguely comparable to the curiosity he saw skulking in the doctor's eyes when he watched Hemlock in those few seconds he let himself.

Yet, that was all it was. Curiosity. Well… Will had thought that was all it was. It was naturally explained away. Lecter was a psychologist, a man who loved to know how minds worked. Hemlock was a sauntering, chattering incongruity. Curiosity was a naturally by-product of those two opposing forces clashing. But what if it, that flashing glint, as quick as lightning, in Lecter's eye, wasn't _just_ curiosity? What if that vaguely comparable word wasn't all the more so loosely fitting? What if there was _more_?

Rapidly, something sparked in Will's chest. Anger, he thought. Excitement, he hoped not. No, absolutely not. It _wasn't_. His fingers tingled on the steering wheel, his foot pressed down a little harder on the gas pedal, and there, growing in the too-big-too-small space between them was a blackened beast Will didn't want to confront. Didn't want to see. Didn't want to acknowledge its existence.

It's anger he feels. Nothing more.

"No. Nothing like that. Just…"

It took Will a decent few seconds to realise it wasn't himself speaking in that rebuttal tone, but Hemlock. It took him much longer to comprehend she was now gazing at him. Dead on. Pupils still thin and alert. For an absurd instant, Will thought she might be reflecting again. Reading him, all those shadowy slight creatures running rampant in his fissured mind, and replying, in his own voice, to his innermost struggles he outrightly rejected were even there.

Nonetheless, she was not.

"There's something not right with Hannibal Lecter."

For it looked like she was battling her own internal skirmishes. Funny, in a way that was not funny at all, really, how they both, his and hers little beasts, seemed to wear the doctor's face. Will didn't know what _that_ meant. He doubted he wanted to right now. He didn't think Hemlock did either. Yet, she was struggling with something. He could hear it in the hushed rush of her words, as if it was all spilling out before she could catch it back into the teacup it had fled from.

"What do you mean?"

The silence that came linked them in a way words never could. There was no expectancy, limitation or captivity in silence as there was with words. It was boundless, infinite, free, like moonbeams, and it was there Will thought he understood Hemlock better than he ever had or would again. Hemlock Potter was precisely like silence and moonbeams.

When described, when confined to something so mundane and common like words, you missed something, dropped more, and what you got from the string of garbled words was something _lesser_ than Hemlock herself. And when Hemlock was whittled down, contorted to this lesser state, so were her thoughts and feeling and maybe, just maybe, that was why she was so irritated all the time. Why she was so antagonistic. Why she was unpredictable.

No one could understand her language that had no words.

If Will was in her shoes… He would be angry too.

Unfortunately for them both, words were necessary and essential to everyone else, himself included. So, she talked, rushing, flowing, pouring, her tiny teacup barren, and, as Will had found, it was vital to hear what she _didn't_ say, what she couldn't find the words for, to see the leaf stains at the bottom of her cup, what she found precious enough to keep to the silence.

"Lecter's smart. Exceedingly so. More so then he lets on, I think. He knows exactly what to say, how to say it, and when to say it. There's never a wrong word, or a misspoken moment with him. Everything's… Measured. Precise. He's seemingly there, right when and where he needs to be, just when _you_ need him most. Nothing seems to unsettle him. Nothing at all. No matter how much or how hard I try to ruffle his feathers, no matter what I throw at his fucking head, he doesn't even stumble. He's observant. I don't think anything goes under his radar. He's eloquent and charming. Witty. He's-"

Will heeded that silence, to the words Hemlock wouldn't, or couldn't, say, and Will cut her off, grinning.

"It sounds like his only crime, Hemlock, is that you _like_ him."

She didn't grin back. Will had not expected her too. As Hemlock got a kick out of unseating people, unbalancing things and putting them all on edges and cliffs to somersault off, Will got an almost sick sort of delight from showing Hemlock that he could read her just as well as she could read him, that he could understand her silence, those words she would never say, and he wasn't afraid to do what she couldn't. Speak them into existence and make it all the more real.

However, she didn't get annoyed. She didn't get offended. Not like she would have been if Alana, Abigail, Jack or Hannibal had said what he just had. They would have made it all sound more severe than what it was. They would have celebrated, in some small way, at getting a peek at something deeper in Hemlock that she didn't want, or was ready, for them to see. That would have pissed her off. Being shaved down to something to contemplate and puzzle and applaud.

It sure as hell pissed Will off when they did it to him.

But, with Will, she knew he could read her as effortlessly as she did those around them. She knew, and she wagered on it, for him to fill in the blanks she couldn't, as she did for him when it was his turn. So, when Will said it, there was only relaxation, a sort of respite from having someone finally understand.

"And _that's_ the problem, Will. I don't _like_ normal people. I don't _get along_ with normal people. Normal people, Will, don't _understand_ me."

Will cocked a high brow at her. She wouldn't be able to see it, not with his face bowed to the road as it was and night settling about them, but he possessed no doubt she _knew_ that was exactly as his face was. That was the problem with Hemlock, with her gift of charting behaviors as if they were turbulent seas she was sailing. She knew what you were going to do a whole act before you, yourself, had decided to do it. Possibly that was why she was bored all the time. Nothing came as a surprise. God knew that would bore Will stiff too.

"What about me? I thought we got along?"

There was a smoldering twisted knot in his gullet that makes the words hard to form, and harder to get out. There's a lump in his throat, and Will won't dissect why it was there to begin with. Perhaps that makes him a hypocrite. He doesn't care. It's there, and as he had become so good at doing, he pretended it wasn't. Yet, Hemlock likely knew it was there. She probably got a kick out of it, as she did most all other involuntary reactions she can tussle out of people, because an involuntary reaction is a behaviour she _couldn't_ see coming.

For a flicker, just one, Will Graham hated Hemlock. He hated the way she could see him. All of him. He hated the way she could understand him like no one else could. He hated the way they, him and her, her and him, didn't need words. He hated the way it was easy. Too easy. Most of all, he hated the way he didn't hate any of it at all. Not really. And, that too, scared him. A lot of things terrified him lately, and most had Hemlock's moonbeams disfiguring their expressions.

Because it was all so entirely out of his control.

"You're different. You don't count like everybody else."

Hemlock said it dismissively, punctuated with a cavalier flap of her thin boned hand. It wasn't a taunt. It wasn't an observation. It wasn't even a question. Fact. Just fact. You're Will. I'm Hemlock. The sun rises. The sun sets. You don't count like everybody else. Another man might take that as an insult. Another man might ask why they didn't count as everybody else did. Another man might shy away from such a resolute box being placed over their head.

Will Graham wasn't another man.

Will soaked it in, deep within, and let it thaw him from the inside out. Unlike when other people pointed out his difference, made highlight of it in an almost mocking 'you're not like the rest of us' manner, he felt no sting or bite to Hemlock's affirmation. There was no malice to be found there, hiding in her silence. It felt strange, so very fucking strange, to be called different, something he had been fighting against his entire life, and, for once, to feel _good_ about it.

"Well, perhaps Hannibal is different too."

Hemlock flopped back into her seat, head lolling on the neck rest, she was so short, and those vigilant, vivid eyes of hers hooded themselves underneath a harsh scowl. Will didn't like that frown. Will wanted it gone. Will was beginning to think he really was insane, and if he was, Hemlock was either the cause, or just as fucking barmy as himself.

"I don't know whether that makes me more concerned, or if I, alarmingly, like that prospect more."

The congestion on the road was dropping, and Will found reprieve in the distraction driving offered him. Soon, they would be stopping at a service station, within the next half-hour he would guess, to fill up on gas. They would likely meet Hannibal, Abigail and Alana there. Maybe he could finally catch his breath in the dingy toilet, pop another Advil, and for the first time since his mad dash to the Hobbs residence, in this very same car, thinking Hannibal and Hemlock were dead, or dying, he would be able to get his thoughts in order.

"It's the latter. You have an instinctive need to seek thrills. I'd be careful with that trait if I was you. It doesn't lead to happy places."

And didn't he fucking know it. Look at his job, look at the muddle of his life, look upon all this enmeshed bed of weeds and marvel. Oh, he could lie, he believed. He could say he _had_ to do what he did. There was no other job for him. Not in this life. He could cry Crawford harassed him into it, coming back, doing what he did, chipping off pieces of himself with each new killer, and slowly, so painfully slow, losing his mind each day. Garret Jacob Hobbs. The Copycat. The Veiled Rider. He was being pulled in five hundred different directions and somehow, someway, all roads, like Rome, lead back to the girl with moonbeams for blood. Will couldn't make sense of it.

Yet, Will Graham was a poor liar.

Deep down, graver and more visceral than anything else, Will knew some small part of him, his budding beast, all his own, _enjoyed_ all this. He liked breaking. He was changing, he knew. To what? He didn't understand. Not yet. Perhaps he had been changing for a while now.

"Hannibal told me happiness is subjective. Maybe what you find disturbing, I would find delightful."

Will chuckled, and shoved and stomped down all those horrid thoughts. Still, he did find himself switching lanes, over to the faster one.

"Yeah, he would. To Hannibal Lecter, everything is subjective. It's part and parcel of being a psychologist."

Hemlock shrugged, back to gazing out the blackened window. In the blur of traffic and dying light, her reflection shimmered red and blue and black and white and red again. It made Will feel a bit nauseous, as with it, he spotted that fiery halo once more, heard the clomping of incensed hooves, and Hemlock, the girl hewn from moonbeams, was sitting beside him, but her reflection was not her own. Glowering back from dull glass, smirking right at him, pulsing in crimson flashes, Will could see the Veiled Rider engulfed in flames.

 _I see you; can you see me too?_

He jerked, the car veered an inch, just an inch, but with a blink, the image was gone and Hemlock was frowning at him. He righted the car quickly enough, and thankfully, whatever Hemlock thought had caused his sudden startle was overlooked as she, too politely perhaps, adamantly stuck to the topic at hand.

"I don't think that fits Alana. She's rather… Inflexible in her world view. Everything and everyone has a place and a time. She has strong moral convictions. Oh, she's good at keeping quiet on those pesky morals she has, especially with patients, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have them and doesn't try to, as good as her intentions might be, push her patients to those very same morals. Trouble is… _Everyone_ to Alana is a patient."

Will breathed gently. Purposefully. He shouldn't be seeing that, the Rider, here. Not here. Never here. Not so close to Hemlock. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was worried. Hemlock had killed, had she not? She had killed Tom Riddle. Perhaps that would draw the Rider's eye. Perhaps she could be a target. Perhaps it had been a long, torturous weekend and he was just fucking tired.

"Even us?"

Hemlock laughed richly, head thrown back on the seat, loudly. Uninhibited. Will liked that about Hemlock Potter, he would admit. When she did something, anything at all, it was with everything she had, and she was never ostensibly concerned it might be construed the wrong way. Rightly, she didn't seem to care about being perceived at all. She was as she was. Will, that same small part of him that relished things it never should love, wished he too could be that way.

" _Especially_ us."

Will's voice turned soft.

"Your aunt means well."

Will knew that personally too. It seemed he knew a lot of things that night, and none of them the key answers. He knew how damaging, especially to ones ego and sense of self, Alana's need to be a doctor to everyone around her could be. Hemlock didn't need a doctor. That's where Hannibal had gotten it right. Hemlock would fight a doctor. She would bite and claw and scratch, and you would never get an inch close to her. Not the real her. She needed people to listen to her silence. She needed people to understand and not doubt. Hemlock needed friends. She needed intimacy without motive.

Just like Will.

"I know. Poor bugger. Good intentions pave the road to hell. Someone should really tell her."

They sit there then. They sit there in silence, in intimacy without intention, and they simply… Be. With Hemlock, the silence isn't a deafening siren of his social inadequacies, it's not Hemlock trying to secure herself in its alleged safety, it's a moment where they can just _be_ , and it doesn't hurt, it doesn't itch, there's no need to fill it mindlessly. It's more beautiful than Will can articulate. It's wonderful. Too wonderful to last.

"You can trust doctor Lecter."

Once more, he didn't know why he said it, but he did, and he meant it. He didn't understand it, but he meant it, and that, if you have ever had an instant just like that, then you would know how very perplexed and stunned it can leave you. Confusion that Hemlock emulated, swelling his way as her eye slipped back to him. He can almost feel the plethora of questions she was etching onto his skin.

"He… I really do think he only has what he believes best for you at heart. You can see it when he looks at you… _I see it_ when he looks at you."

The admission makes him uneasy. Prickly. Disjointed. He felt as if he was sealing immense iron gates around himself, locking the padlock, throwing away the key. Secluded and alone. Outside. Always outside looking in. Hemlock, as she always did, span the tables on him in a massive toss and, as he had done to her, used the words he couldn't say, wouldn't say, _his_ silence, against him.

"He's your friend too, Will. We _both_ are. You know that, right? We're like… Like Taco Bell on a Tuesday."

Will spluttered.

"Taco Bell?"

Hemlock smiled at him, dimples and all.

"A trio of double stuffed Taco's for the price of one on Tuesday. You buy one, you get the other two free, whether you want them or not."

Will… Will howled, laughing as freely as Hemlock did. It felt good. So good.

"You-… That's a terrible allegory Hemlock. Terrible. Are you sure you're thinking of us, or are you just hungry?"

Hemlock shrugged in her over-sized shirt, there was a flash of pale shoulder from fallen collar, and her smile never diminished.

"Can't I be both? And as your dearest, most daring, most loyal friend, I have a favour to ask of you."

The lump in his throat was back, burning, and there was a swift tension to his abdomen. Will didn't think Hemlock meant that the way it sounded, saying she felt hungry when she thought of him, of Hannibal. But Will did. Will thought of it. He thought of it and he despised himself.

"Oh? And what is that?"

He finally succeeded in asking. No. His voice wasn't craggy. No. His stomach didn't squirm. No. there was no hitch to his heartbeat. Will had been wrong before.

He _was_ a good liar.

"I want to meet your dogs."

Was Hemlock's great favour. Nevertheless, promptly, she was diverting course again, shaking her head, loose curls stirring the air until Will thought he could taste her on his lips. Huh, who knew? Moon-dust and madness tasted like lemon sherbet.

"Actually, no! I want a calm night in. I want to cook a meal, burn some trout, because I'm a real fucking bad cook, so we have to order take in. I want to force Hannibal to drink that horrid cheap wine, you know the one? The one that comes in bloody boxes with a shitty plastic tap? Yeah, I want to serve that and see his face. We'll play horrendous seventies rock music, so by the end of the night everyone has a migraine. You can bring your dogs around, and Alana will complain Winston's ate her pricey Louis Vuitton shoes. We won't tell her I'd used them to play fetch with him. I'll laugh at all the misery. Hannibal will look around him at this poor, tasteless party in despair. You can feign moping in the corner, pretending you don't find it all as funny as I do. And, for one night, just one, we can all pretend _this_ had been the worse night of our lives. I'm not dead, shot, stabbed or bleeding out. Hannibal isn't… Doing whatever the fuck it is Hannibal does. And you, kind sir, can imagine you're not seconds away from a mental breakdown, and a padded cell with your name scribbled in crayon on the door."

Hemlock chuckled and Will, very much again out of his control, found himself laughing too. It did that, Hemlock's laughter. Every time he heard it, anytime anyone heard it he thought, it brightened the light, lifted night from day, and made the world fairer.

"How can I possibly say no to that?"

Hemlock nodded sharply, a whiff of delight still prancing in her voice. Up. Down. Done.

"Good. A week a Wednesday it is. Five o'clock. I'll let the good doctor know."

It might have been her mirth, so aglow and cheerful. It might have been the way the stars were coming out in the murky sky. It might have been Will, whenever he had something good, even if it was just a moment of merriment and lull, he had to ruin it because he felt as if he didn't spoil it, something crueler would. It could have been observing the smile on Hemlock's face, he was belted with guilt again, guilt as his eyes dropped to the bandage with a spot of blood blooming on its white fold.

Nonetheless, that little bubble they were in, full of Taco Bell and bad dinner parties and ways to drive Hannibal up the wall, popped as Will became deadly serious. This was why he couldn't have nice things. He only ever wrecked them.

"Hemlock… I'm sorry about your leg. I'm sorry-… You shouldn't have been hurt. I should have been there and-… I'm sorry. You're my-… and I-"

She blinked, and winked, and twinkled at him. Will realised, with more satisfaction then he ever should have, particularly right now, that she was surprised. Will had _surprised_ her.

"That's-… That's the first time someone has ever said their sorry I'm hurt. I-… I… Pull over."

Abruptly, she was stretching over him, hands on the wheel, hair in his face, so close he could feel the heat of her, the kiln, and she spun the car, steeply, right on into the hard shoulder of the interstate. The car behind them honked obnoxiously, they barely missed a full-on collision, and Will slogged his foot down hard on the break, just as the bumper of his car cleared the lane and rolled into the hard shoulder.

Will's mouth set off, his breath was coming quick, adrenaline punting fiercely in his blood, and he thought he might have been asking her what the hell she thought she was doing, what was wrong, what the fuck was happening, but she pleated back into her side of the too-big-too-small cab and she was looking at him, eye to eye, with those damned eyes of hers and he lost it all.

There was an honesty to her face, shining from the slopes and lines of her skin that was equal parts ruthless as it was helpless.

"I'm not a good person, Will."

Will blundered, but Hemlock wasn't finished.

"I'm not a good person, but _you_ are. You care more than anyone else I've ever known. And it's _real_ care. Real sympathy. Real empathy. Not for show. Not because you think people are watching, or doing it because that's what society says you should. Everything about you is so awfully _real_. So real it hurts to be around you sometimes. You care and you are a good person."

Her pitch plunged and that slight sliver of control Will still had shattered on the floor between them with it. She was no longer rushing, no longer flowing. Instead, she leaked and oozed, like the wound on her thigh. Unwittingly. She, Will thought, might have just been as out of self-control that night as he was.

"This is the most honest I'll ever be, Will. I'm not a good person. Maybe I was once, but I-… She seems like someone so very far away. Too far for me to reach and I don't think I want to either. I'm not sorry about it. She-… She was weak. She's dead. I haven't been that person for a long time. I know that now, and I _won't_ go back."

Will saw himself as a young boy, buried beneath his blankets, shivering, hiding from the hallucinations and visions he didn't at the time understand was caused by his empathy. He saw himself with his father, on the shipyard, tying ropes and lifting masts, another classmate's birthday with no invite passing by because, really, who wanted to invite Whacky Will? He saw the same gangly, gawky boy who stopped trying to integrate.

Change was old. It had profound roots. Greater than anyone ever gave it credit for. Will could answer that he had begun to change after he had killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs, and that would be easy. It was definitive. Recent. A clear point in time Will could look back to, point at, and blame when the mood struck. Yet, change was never so clear cut. It was laborious, methodical, with no one fixed point in time.

The truth was, that first seed of change, the one that had led him here, right now, with demons in his head, ghost in his eyes and nightmares for pals, likely got into him young, right underneath those very same blankets that had offered him relief so long ago, with a father who didn't know what to do with a kid who saw things that no one else could.

Will could never go back to being that boy. He didn't even know if he could go back to being the man he was only a month ago. Time and change moved everybody, some more than others, and there was no reversal, no kill switch, and no hopping off the ride. It hit him then. It hit him _hard._ The fallacy of faces and age.

Hemlock was not just a seventeen-year-old girl. She'd lived more, through more, done more, than men and women three times her age. Ironically, she'd not lived at all, really. She hadn't been a girl for as long as he had not been that boy in blankets. People like them, him and her, they didn't get the luxury of naivety and purity for long. Like the petals of her disfigured rose, the wind snatched those from them unforgivingly. You could fight it, that wind, but it was as pointless as fighting change or time. The best bet was to buckle up and enjoy what little you could in the short time you had it before, anew, time and change stole that from you too.

"So, listen to me and listen hard. I am not a good person. You are. And that is why you need to know that. You and Hannibal… You're my only friends. You both need to know I'm not a good person."

Will tried to break in.

"Hemlock-…"

But Hemlock wasn't having none of it.

"I'm angry all the time. I'm arrogant when I shouldn't be. Petty, unstable and fickle. I lie, deceive and plot just because I can. You know that. I know you do. I know you see it; you just haven't connected the dots yet. But you will. _You will._ And when you do, it'll break some part of you. Even then, I doubt I'll be sorry. I can't stop myself. You know why? Because I know exactly what and who I am, Will, and it isn't pretty, and first and foremost, I'm selfish. So very fucking selfish. What's mine is _mine._ Do you understand? _Mine._ I'm giving you an out here, Will. You're a good person, you deserve that at least, and, I'm afraid, that's all I can give. So…"

She took a moment to wiggle in her seat, leg folding down to the floor, blood on the seat, sitting tall, proud. Yet, Will saw it all the same. The reluctance in far corner of her eye, as if she really didn't want to be saying or doing what she was. But she would. _For him._

"Knowing that, knowing I'm not a good person, that I won't ever be one, knowing how selfish and greedy I can be, you have two options. Turn back around, take your foot of the break, say no more, and drive. Just drive. I won't say or do anything more. I won't hold anything against you. In fact, I'm asking-… Pleading for you to do it. Just drive. We can still work together. I'll laugh and joke and… Everything will be fine. Everything will be as it was before this fucking weekend. So, drive."

 _Turn back. Don't come closer. I'll break you. I just can't help myself, so help me help you, and turn away for the both of us. I'll ruin you. I won't mean to, but I will. I beg you, turn away._ It was all there, swinging in the silence like stars, all the things she would never say but told all the same, and again, the lines blurred between who was really speaking. Him or her.

Yet, she was _wrong_. She wasn't a bad person. Will thought he could never believe she was. She said she was selfish, and perhaps she was, but not here, not now. She wouldn't be doing this, saying all this, believe she had to give Will and escape from herself, if she was selfish. _Drive and don't look back…_

But he can't.

He doesn't want to.

The grief and fear when he thought she had been stabbed and killed, when he thought Hannibal was gone too… There was no running from that sort of pain, pretending you didn't know why you felt it, why it was there, why it was eating you a-fucking-live. Will held onto that pain then. He held on close and he savored it. He imagined what if that had been true. He imaged being in the world alone, where he had not met Hemlock. Someone so like him, but so different. Two phases of the same moon. He can't do it. He can't.

He's selfish too.

"And the other option?"

It's wrong. He knows that. It's so wrong. There was numerous, countless things wrong with wanting what he wanted, and even more he had not contemplated yet. Alana. His own growing darkness. His thrill at killing and delusions. Will was broken. Broken in a vicious, spiteful way. He tainted everything around him. Wrecked it. Hemlock, moonbeam Hemlock, didn't deserve that. _She didn't deserve a damaged, destroyed man like Will Graham._

But he wants it. He wants it badly, and he was moving, closer, nearer, gravitating, dragged in.

"I've been alone my whole life and I don't want to be alone anymore. I want… I want it all, Will. I want to _live._ The good and the bad. The beautiful and the ugly. I want everything. And I want you. That's all I know. I want it all. Everything you have. Everything you are. Everything you could be. _"_

Her voice cracked.

"I told you I was selfish."

He was close now. So close. He wasn't in control. Maybe he never had been. Control was an illusion. Will lived in fantasies and delusions. His hand lifted, palm slipped to cheek, warm, warm skin, too warm, it burned him, branded him. He couldn't help himself. He wanted more. Fingers dipped into the tangled heap of curls, black against his scarred, calloused hand, and those bright, bright eyes are on him, and the pupils are blown wide, and suddenly, he's sinking and flying. He shouldn't. _He_ shouldn't. He _shouldn't_.

Then he does.

His forehead brushes hers, nose skimming nose, the space between them still too large. Far too small. He doesn't know whether he's breathing or not. He doesn't care.

"We can both be selfish then."

The space separating them collapsed. Gone. Just like that. The kiss was not like those in movies, pristine and pure and chaste, nor in books or T.V. There's no trumpets sounding in the distance, or fireworks blasting behind eyelid. It's real, and painful, and aching. Their lips are dry from the cold wind, there was an impulsive clash of teeth, the best kind of impulsivity, and passion that ignited in hollowed chests like prayer candles lit in abandoned alters. Pleas of the damned.

There was a hand on his jaw, fingers dancing through stubble, into his hair, over his ear, one tug, two. Breath to breath, heart to heart, beat for beat, an ebb and flow and thrust and drag. Tongue met tongue, something inside sizzled and popped, and suddenly, Will was lifting over to the other side of the small cab, invading her seat, her space, no space, pushing and pulling. A tangle of limbs. Interlocking. Joining. Frantic. Something tore. He heard it. Far off. Close. Maybe it was her t-shirt. Maybe it was his chest. Maybe it was their breath, and-

The thunderous bleeping of his cell phone ringing ripped the two apart. Will sank back into his own seat. He dropped his phone twice before he ultimately managed to pick it up with trembling hands. Hannibal's smooth voice scarcely slashed through the rushing in his ears. Will's voice didn't sound like his own.

"Yes… No..I-… Ugh… Fell behind. We're fine. We-… We fell behind. I'll catch up. Yes. Yes. Gas station on the second turn off. Got it. Meet you there."

He hung up and quickly unparked the car. Sped off. Faster than he should. Slower than his spinning mind. He still hadn't caught his breath. He didn't think he would. Ludicrously, the voice besides him made him jump.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

"You can still turn back. Last chance, Will."

Will glanced to Hemlock in the dusk. He was snared. Red lips. Swollen. Messy hair. Bright eyes. Moonlight for skin. Bruised. Small. Alone in the world. But not alone. He was there. He wasn't alone anymore, either. Blindly, he reached over, grappled for her hand, and in the dark of the night, their fingers intertwined.

Perhaps it was wrong. Perhaps there was something gravely awful within him. Perhaps he would hate himself later. Perhaps Alana would kill him when she found out. Perhaps he was broken beyond repair. Yet, he couldn't help himself.

 _He was selfish too._

He smiled at her through the gloom, and squeezed her hand. For her, or for himself… He didn't know.

"You can't get rid of me so easily. Not now."

* * *

 **Thoughts?**

 **NOTES (Ignore if you don't want to read my rambling on this chapter):** Chapter ten, after three months, is finally here, and the Disaster Trio, as I've come to call them, are finally back! I know this chapter might seem a bit filler-ish, and I know it's taken a long time coming, and I'm sure I'm testing everyone's patience lol. No murders, no outward plotting, no blood? In a Hannibal fic? Outrageous! However, I was planning to do this chapter later, after certain things take place, but every time I went to post, I was dragged back to here. It just fits better here, I think, and adds a certain dimension for later happenstances that will be fun to play with. So, I've gone with my gut.

I hope everyone liked it. It's taken a long time to get right, and I hope Will and Hemlock are still in character and not so out of place from a three-month break from writing. Don't worry, Hannibal is back in all his glory next chapter, and although he wasn't personally in this one, his influence and presence is still heavy, I think. Hannibal knows what he was doing by putting Hemlock and Will alone in that car, so if you don't like this chapter, don't blame me, blame him lol.

Most importantly about this chapter is I really wanted a moment where Hemlock outrightly matches everything Will gave in his personality profile of hers, unbeknownst to him, of the Rider in chapter eight. She parrots back, nearly word for word, what he said of her. She plucks a rose, petal by petal, as Will said the Rider does to people for entertainment. _She warns him._ She knows Will will find out, she knows he's too smart not to, it's just a matter of time, and, for once, she wants to be honest with someone, Will, because she likes him and that honesty, as ambiguous as it is, is pretty much all she can give.

At the same time, it's almost a game, as Will said the killer couldn't help themselves from playing. She's testing him. Seeing if he will connect the dots. As Will said, she likes doing things right under peoples noses just to see if they catch her for the fun of it. She can't help herself. This layered approach of generally caring for Will, warning him, wanting what's best for him, and being utterly incapable to help herself from being the way she is and messing with his head, adds a layer to this chapter that I hope lifts it from filler territory. A lot of things done and said here, on both Hemlock and Will's part, come back later, biting them both on the arse.

* * *

 **THANK YOU, NO, REALLY, THANK YOU** to all the follows and favourites and, of course, reviews! They all mean so much, and are the life-blood of this fic. I hope, in some way, be it one line or one paragraph, you liked this chapter. If you could, drop a review! They keep the muses from going on strike lol. And, hopefully, I will see you all soon!


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER EIGHT: FIREWHISKEY**

 **PART ONE**

* * *

 _Will Graham's P.O.V_

It was late at night. Too late for this. Will Graham knew that. Yet, he also, in spite of desperately telling himself that he must turn around, get back into his car, and drive back home, exactly where he ought to have been all along, still found himself lifting his hand and pounding in a rap of seven on the bulky oak door in front of him, and just for good measure, pressing the little silver button for the doorbell.

Will Graham needed to talk. To someone. Anyone. A friend. He'd been clutching it in for three days, three whole miserable days, retracting away in his little house, _brooding_ Hemlock would call it. So, yes. Will Graham needed to talk. To someone. Anyone. _A friend_.

Sadly, Will didn't have many of those. Alana was a conclusive no go. He would rather skulk and stew than turn up at Jack's door at half eleven at night. Hemlock… No. Not for this. That left only one. How very, very, very fucking depressing. A bit pathetic too, Will thought.

The door did not creak or groan as it swung open. Expensive wood never really squealed. It glided, much like the man who appeared behind it. Back-lit by the hallway light, almost haloed in golden fluorescent, doctor Hannibal Lecter stood at the precipice of outside, dressed in slacks and a cosy, comfortable, equally expensive, grey jumper.

"Will, is everything alright?"

Will had never seen the doctor out of his iconic suits before. Always three piece. Always Italian. Always mind numbingly meticulous. Now, standing before him, snow drifting at his back, warmth rinsing at his face from the open door, Lecter almost looked… Domestic. Even his hair seemed relaxed, not as keenly combed back from his sharp angled face.

Will shouldn't have come.

Will needed to.

He shuffled on his spot, digging his hands deeper into the pockets of his tatty jacket.

"I need to talk."

The doctor swept aside, ushered Will in with an arch of his long arm, and before Will really knew it, they were in his chromatic kitchen, all snappy lines, cleanliness and almost utilitarian landscape. Hannibal at his counter, teapot in hand, Will near the shadowed door, underneath the cold, sterile light above, patrolling. It took to the whistling of the boiling kettle, right before the sound collapsed into a screech, for Will to break too.

"I kissed her."

Hannibal paused, kettle in hand, raised, water pouring down, steam rising up, and underneath Lecter's penetrating gaze, Will felt very much like that. Pitched down, small, rushing in one direction, yet unaccountably as uncatchable as the steam evaporating in the air.

"Dr. Bloom?"

Will shook his head, snatched his glasses from their perch on his nose, and frantically polished at the lenses with the hem of his jumper. It was good to keep the hands busy, Will thought, when one's mind was hectic too. It granted a sort of equilibrium that made it feel as if he wasn't spiralling out of control. Even if he really was. Sometimes, only some, feeling was more important than reality. Especially when facing one's sins.

"No. Hemlock. I-… I kissed her."

Hannibal nodded once. Much like Hemlock. Up, down, finish. Perhaps the latter had picked it up from the former subconsciously. Will had noticed Hemlock reaching for glasses on her face, though she did not wear them, once, as if she was going to scrub them as viciously as Will did his own. Again, he was hit with that horrid question.

How much was Hemlock… Hemlock? How much was truly the phenomenon known as her, and not some inadvertent amalgamation of that gift of hers seizing and adapting? If so, how much was Will… Will? How much was truly him, and not some variation of his own frightening gift, other's emotions masquerading as his own?

How much was anybody anybody, and not a response to outside stimuli, really?

"It's to be expected."

Hannibal peppered his statement with a dunk of his tea infuser, a little meshed ball on a fragile gold chain, into the glass teapot. Immediately, the water began to bleed purple. Lavender tea. Calming. Will's response was anything but calm.

"Going for a morning jog is to be expected. Getting post is to be expected. Stubbing a toe is to be expected. This… This is the opposite of something to be expected, doctor Lecter."

Hannibal sat down on the island stall, gently drove one of the teacups over in Will's general direction, nodding to the seat opposite him for Will to take. Will refused the offering. He felt… Energetic. Discharged. He was a live wire sparking in the night, he couldn't touch ground or he would pop and crackle and ignite. Hannibal didn't take it personally, he picked up his own drink, lightly blew little currents into the purple pool in his cup, and spoke as calmly as a fat cloud drifting in a blue sky.

"You both recently came out of very emotionally charged circumstances, Will. Seeking intimacy is a natural means to alleviate such critical events. It reinforces the notion that you survived. Yes, it is to be expected."

Will did take the seat now. He took it and sagged. Drooped. Bowed.

"So, I used her to ease my own psyche. Fantastic."

There was a particular bite to Hannibal's stare from over the rim of his cup, as he paused in a sip, that Will felt evocative of a noose. It swung, it caught, and it wouldn't let Will flee. Now Will was sure Hannibal had picked that unique look up from Hemlock, and not the other way around. She had a way of captivating people… Or imprisoning them. Will wasn't quite sure which one it was yet.

"Do not twist my words, Will. Alana was present. Abigail was present. Both having survived the same traumatic experience. Yet, you did not look at them. You chose to go with Hemlock in the car alone. You could have very easily drove Abigail and Alana back while I took Hemlock. You chose to initiate intimacy with her. In a time of emotional turmoil, you chose Hemlock. To feel guilty now is to renounce your choice. In short, reject Hemlock and your developing relationship. I don't believe you want to do that. Not if we are being honest."

Will reached for his cup. He held it in his hands. He took a long, dragging gulp. The tea burned his throat. He hated the taste of lavender. Absolutely loathed it. Yet, he went back for another guzzle. Another swig. Empty. Just like his voice.

"That's it, though, doctor. I _don't_ feel guilty."

He sighed sincerely.

"I should. I know I should. But I don't. Hemlock… She's young. Clever. So clever. She could be so much. Do so much. She has such… Promise."

Hannibal perked at the word, Will spotted. It wasn't anything superficially identifiable. Many people would miss it completely. There was no straightening of spine, or puffing of chest or hunching shoulder, flickering of nostril or expansion of pupil that usually came with interest. It was… It was a serpentine movement, if Will had to ever describe it. A ripple under scales. A trundling spread of muscle flaring, right beneath the surface, priming, excited.

"And I… I'll stain that. Spoil it. I'll only drag her down. I should feel guilty about that, I know, but I can't bring myself to."

Hannibal grinned.

"Believe me, Will, whatever potential Hemlock has, you will not ruin it. In fact, I think you can only help her reach it. I believe she can help you reach yours too."

Lecter took one final drink from his cup before he placed it down before him neatly, primly turning the cup so the handle pointed outwards. Hemlock did the same with her drinks. Neither had picked it up from the other, they had only gained it from coming from the old world, with old world manners, from old world families, with older world money.

Will normally just ditched his used mugs wherever they had fallen like soldiers on a battlefield. He didn't come from Lithuanian Count stock like Lecter though, nor heroic breeds of English aristocracy as Hemlock did. Will came from a humbler, muddier strain of seafaring fisherman. In normal circumstances, in a normal world, if they had lived normal lives, he should have never met these two. Who was he kidding?

None of them were _normal._

"Additionally, Will, you are currently patronizing yourself. This is your insecurities speaking. In her time of crisis, instability, she chose you as you chose her. Do not belittle that choice of hers. You both suffer from the same pathology."

Will slanted a brow and Hannibal's smile grew, much like his under-skin ripple, serpentine and winding.

"It is not in my habit to share sessions with my patients outside those directly involved. Yet, I will make one concession here, Will. Hemlock suffers from anti-social personality disorder. Severely. It disrupts nearly all aspects of her life, and she does struggle terribly with it. It's what allows her to be a brilliant tracker, yet cuts her off from the rest of the world in cruel seclusion. Human connection does not come easy to our Hemlock. You already know this. She knows you do; I know you do. However, as much as you claim you fall on the autism spectrum, we both know this is not entirely true either. You too show clear, distinctive anti-social traits. Given, it is not as…"

Hannibal took a short while to find the right word. It wasn't often the elegant doctor struggled to find eloquence. Will enjoyed it immensely.

"Pronounced in you as it is Hemlock, but it is there all the same. Conflictingly, you're both stricken with the saviour complex. You both view yourselves as the villains and vagabonds of your own story. Saint and sinner. Protagonist and antagonist. You both believe the other needs safeguarding from yourselves, and have personally taken on the duty of doing so. You're equally stronger than the other believes you to be, similarly as cunning too, and it is time to start seeing that. If I were to give you some advice, it would be this. Have faith in the other. Anti-social personality disorder or not, you will never find one more loyal then Hemlock."

Will chuckled dryly, flicking a fingernail on the china of his teacup, listening to the clip it chimed. He thought it sounded too much like Hemlock laughing.

"I don't have much faith in anything anymore, doctor Lecter."

Hannibal regarded him steadily, carefully. He sounded sad then, as if he was speaking from personal experience.

"That is the only time you can have faith, Will. When things seem bleakest. Put that faith in Hemlock, as she has obviously done with you."

Another strike of fingernail on china, another spell of Hemlock's laughter echoing in the air between them, and Will stared down relentlessly into the empty cup.

"I think I already have."

When he glanced up, back to Hannibal, his gaze slid, he spied the suitcases in the corner of the kitchen, half buried in shade, nestled together in a bundle of fine leather and brass near the wine room just offshoot of Hannibal's kitchen. Will frowned.

"Are you going somewhere, Lecter?"

Hannibal rose, plucked up the two cups and took them to the sink with the teapot, where he tugged up his sleeves and set to washing. When he spoke, his voice bounced off the white tile, recoiling off the stainless steel like bullets fired in a mortuary.

"I have a conference in Copenhagen to attend. My flight is in an hour. The annual board of psychiatry is meeting about the new reforms to our procedures, and I'm afraid I must be present. I will only be gone a week."

Will laughed, adding drums to the gunfire.

"Hemlock's not going to like that."

Hannibal glanced over his shoulder to Will, brutal, antiseptic cool light to his back, obscuring his face in gloom. Will couldn't see that the other man was smiling, but he _knew_ Lecter was.

"I'll be sure to bring her back a present."

* * *

 _Hemlock's P.O.V_

Hannibal Lecter was gone for seven bloody days, and Hemlock _hated_ it. Not because she missed him particularly bad. Not because she, especially, needed him. Not even because she appreciated his company, as much as that exasperated her. She supposed she _could_ hate it for all those reasons, but she didn't. Not primarily, at least. She hated it for one straightforward reason.

It didn't make sense.

Hemlock had opened his world up beyond belief, showed him things that shouldn't exist, possibilities thought unimaginable, expanded the horizon of reality itself… And no questions came. Nothing. He fucking left to go to a conference of all things. As soon as they touched down in Baltimore, it seemed, he was off, away, gone, on his merry fucking way as if everything was exactly the same as it had been before. Normal and completely, blandly, exceedingly muggle.

 _It didn't make sense._

By day two of his speedy departure, Hemlock had reasoned that it _could_ be expected. Some people, when their world was shattered, needed to retreat and reacclimatize to the new, shiny realm they found themselves in. She had never taken doctor Lecter as one of those people, who needed to be preoccupied from fact, but, well, perhaps he was. Hemlock highly doubted it, but there was a chance, she thought begrudgingly.

By day three, Hemlock had given herself her own distraction. She'd begun working Abigail Hobbs. She slathered on smiles, visited her hospital bed, adding a theatrical limp to her walk, making sure Abigail noticed her crutches. _Look at me, look at the sacrifice I've given you, I've bled for you, look at how much pain I'm in for you… Look and feel guilty… And give me what the fuck I want._

Pretending to have a gimp leg was a chore in and off itself, she would admit. Hemlock had healed her wound the same night they arrived back in Baltimore with a few stashed potions she had at Alana's, but when needs must… It was a talent, Hemlock thought. In a battle, be it physical or mental, it was best to pretend to be weaker than you were. Let the other think they had you on the ropes, the poor girl in crutches, easy prey, and then, when they least expected it, drive that not so gimp leg right through their chest.

Hemlock couldn't do that to Abigail, of course, but she could unearth misplaced sympathy, and that, in this case, was wholly more worth the annoyance it was becoming to hop along. Bit by bit, act by act, Hemlock was cornering Abigail. It was almost sad the other girl couldn't see it. _Almost._

She brought her flowers and chocolates, those sappy little balloons with _get well soon_ scrawled across a cartoon heart, the kind people bought because they thought it made them quirky. She went at daybreak and only left at nightfall, and she always pretended to argue with the matron to stay. It was too early to query the man on the phone, the Copycat, but the time would come. Abigail would break. Hemlock knew it. She just had to have patience.

Worst case scenario, Hemlock could legilimency the girl. Parasitize her mind, steal the info she needed, and, because, as Snape would have attested if he were still alive, Hemlock was a rough hand at mind magic, Obliviate being one of the few spells she could properly cast in mind magic if she concentrated hard enough and went as gentle as possible, she would completely devastate Abigail's head. Abigail would likely be a blubbering mess by the end, hardly know her own name, dribble all over herself. Yet, she'd have a comfy life in a psych ward, wouldn't she?

No. Best Hemlock give her some time to give the information over willingly. Will liked Abigail with her mind as it was, Merlin knows why. Hemlock thought he might be a tad upset if Abigail could only ever repeat duck, duck, goose again. Hemlock didn't like seeing Will upset. So she would wait.

For a little bit.

"You haven't missed a lot while you were away. Abigail's going to be moving to the less secure ward this weekend. Will's found another stray. He's called her Bonny. She has a fucked-up leg, like me. I don't think she's going to survive, but you try telling Will that. Alana's writing a paper on Boyle and the murder of Marissa Schurr. She's using Will's profile. She wants to publish it in a few months. She asked _me_ for input. Me. That's funny, isn't it? I'm going to be involved in my own scapegoat's psych profile. Perhaps I should say Boyle was a pyromaniac too… But, then again, that would be a bit ham fisted, wouldn't it Doc?"

Doctor Lecter crossed one of his long legs over the other, folding his hands in his lap, regal in his low-backed leather Chester chair, as he craned his neck back to look up at her. Tranquil. Effortless. _Bastard._ He'd been back two days now. Hemlock had waited to book her next therapy session through Alana, not wanting to give away how eager she was, and here she stood. In his expansive office. Hemlock was up on the top deck, traversing his books, thumbing leather spines, acting for all the world to be as likewise serene and effortless as the good doctor below her.

"You and Will Graham kissed."

With her back turned to his face, Hannibal could not see the sweep of her tongue over teeth, the flick over fang. _Will Graham._ If Hemlock could give trouble a face, she would give it Will's. Freely. He was rapidly becoming the bane of her existence. Not him, himself. _Never him._ It was what he made _her_.

Hemlock had practically, in all but words, told him she was Marissa Schurr's executioner. She refused to think or say killer. She _wasn't_ a killer. Hemlock had purpose outside her own personal desires. Killer's killed for egotistical needs. Executioners passed judgement. Yes, executioner fit better. Homey and snug like a well-worn scarf. Still, she had gift wrapped it for Will. Laid it all out on the table like glossy, fresh blueprints. She had nearly bloody outed herself in a small beat-down Volvo of all fucking things.

And it had all been so very out of her control.

She just… Did it. Told him without really telling him. Nearly gave it all away. She had looked into those eyes, saw the honesty there, the aching realness of him, and she had spilled all. Hemlock didn't like that. Hemlock didn't like that at _all_.

Snatching free an edition of Edgar Allen Poe poems from the mahogany bookcase, Hemlock turned around and lent on the polished railing of the upper stairs by her elbow, half facing Hannibal, casually flipping through thick vellum pages fringed with gold leaf. Her voice nearly sang in the splendidly acoustical room.

"No we didn't."

Hemlock could hear the smile in Hannibal's voice. It eerily paired with the illustration of the raven in flight on the paper she was currently perusing.

"Hemlock now is not the time to see if I can pick up on your lies. I assure you, I can. Will told me himself the night I left."

Now it was Hemlock's turn to grin as she closed the book with a thud and spun to face Lecter head on.

"Ah, but if I said yes, you would have never told me Will told you. By saying no, I now know how _you_ know. I also know Will was obviously… Disjointed enough about it to go running to you for advice. See? No lies, just long winded duplicity."

Though she was smiling, bile lashed at the delicate flesh of her throat. Will had gone running to Hannibal. Will had kissed her… And then scampered to a head shrink. That was a smooth blow to her ego, she would admit. Still, whatever the two had talked about, hashed out, Will had come around and been… Well, Will. She had seen him every single day so far. He had even taken her to meet his dogs. They had laughed and joked and, though they had not kissed again, neither did they breach the subject of it, there was a…

Tenderness, yes, tenderness there, blanketing them now. Hands staying in hands, smiles just a shade softer, laughter lingering for a moment longer, all the good stuff that made Hemlock all the more fucking selfish. Turns out, growing up as an abused kid, with fists for breakfast and kicks for supper, this kind of touch, touch that _didn't_ hurt, touch you never knew existed previously, became something you craved.

Hemlock was _starved_.

"Does it gladden you that Will told me? That he was open about it?"

Hemlock rolled the book in her hands, feeling the aged leather wrinkle. It did. And that was the problem. Hemlock wanted more. She always wanted more. She was sure, so certain now, that when it came to Will, nothing would _ever_ be enough. She could devour him, suck the very marrow from his carcass, and she would still thirst for more.

She'd imagined just that last night. Picking her teeth with Will Graham shaped bones. His nectar still sticky on her fingers. She'd imagined and she'd gone hurtling for her file on the Copycat killer hoarded underneath her mattress, just to stop herself from imagining anymore.

"I've been thinking, especially this morning, about killing him."

Hemlock glanced over to the large bay windows of Hannibal's office. The outside world was foggy through the shades. Ink on snow.

"It would be easy. Will trusts me. I know where he lives. He's dogs like me. He's not exactly innocent, either, is he? He's killed. I can't do it as I did Marissa. That face is meant to be Boyle now. But I have the Copycat's modus operandi. I can stage it. Of course, I'll make it quick. Painless. He doesn't deserve to suffer. I'm not a monster."

Hemlock looked back to Hannibal. Tranquil, calm, and absolutely maddening Hannibal. He wasn't shocked. He wasn't alarmed. He wasn't even angry. In fact, he looked as he always did. As if this was precisely what he anticipated.

"You won't, Hemlock. You don't want to kill Will. You wish to stop yourself from opening up any further. You think by taking Will out of the equation, someone who has gotten so deep under your skin, made you lose control of yourself, something no one else, apart from Tom Riddle I suspect, has ever done to you, that you can return to being in control fully."

He stretched over to his little side-table, plucked up his fountain pen and notebook and balanced them, open, in his lap. He didn't write a single word down.

"You won't get that control back. You won't kill Will Graham. You might bluster and curse that you will, but you won't. You like him, and it scares you. In the past, the only way to defeat your fear has been killing those who caused it. That won't fix this type of fear, Hemlock. Death will not vanquish your apprehension of intimacy and affection."

Perhaps Hemlock had been too busy looking in the wrong direction. A mistake she would _not_ be making again. Will knew her, yes, knew her better than anyone else… But Hannibal Lecter did too. There was a terrifying familiarity in that alone. To have someone know you better than you know yourself. Some, perhaps Hemlock too, would argue that there was no stronger intimacy than that. Sex, kissing, touching, they all paled in the face of a man who spoke your words before they left your lips.

"If death could, maybe I should kill you instead."

Hannibal smiled at her. Broadly. He took it for what it was. A threat, of course, Hemlock couldn't help herself with that, it was almost a natural state of being now, but more than a modest warning. A compliment. That's what she liked about Hannibal; he understood the layers she worked in.

Because he painted in them too.

"And how would you kill me? Like Will? Peacefully? Painlessly? Or would you deconstruct my sins and place them for display in one of your assemblage tableaux like Marissa Schurr?"

Hemlock shook her head.

"Privately, I think. No one would ever find your body. Only I would ever know where you went, where you were, what happened to you. I think… I think I might visit the site some days. I might even talk to it, as we are talking now. I might even pretend you're answering back. I'll leave your ghost some Châteauneuf Du Pape and some white truffles. Would you like that?"

Her voice was pale, smooth, a little absent, as if she was planning a vacation and was trying to compartmentalize all the little nitty gritty details. Hemlock questioned whether these were the organisational skills Hermione had always harped onto her about correcting. Hannibal tapped the tip of his fountain pen in a sunder of three on the edge of his notebook. He was still smiling. Hemlock liked it. Hemlock hated it.

"Alone forever with only you for company. That's a very possessive death, Hemlock."

Possessive of Hannibal Lecter? Hemlock let that thought sway about her mind, felt it, tasted it, a wave lapping at the shore with sea salt cresting on her lips. Could that be the reason for her annoyance at his sudden disappearance without so much as a goodbye, see you later? At least part of the reason? Coldly, Hemlock thought it could. She thought of it in a way a predator thinks about why it prefers rabbits over mice, and why it still yearns for rabbit after eating said scrawny, skeletal rodents.

There was a divide there, Hemlock knew. When people, other people she thought, missed someone, they didn't really go through it logically. They cried and wept and screamed, and were utterly too messy for Hemlock's taste. _They felt._ That's all. They felt and they thoughtlessly acted through that feeling. She saw it in the Weasley's after Fred's death. She saw it in Neville's face when he spoke of his parents. She saw it in the war memorial they built, a thousand names written on marbled money that could have gone to rebuilding Hogwarts. A more sensible pressing matter than a slab of stone that would gather moss.

When Hemlock missed someone, it was more… Detached. Separated. She didn't think she missed the person, per say. She missed what they could do _for_ her. She didn't miss Tom Riddle for Tom Riddle, she missed him for the fight, the adrenaline, the understanding he offered her. She didn't miss Sirius Black for Black, she missed his broken promises of a warm home that she knew would never come true but found comfort in all the same, she missed that he would bring her breakfast in bed, she missed the blind loyalty. She missed Dobby for his unwavering resoluteness to stand at her side, even if she was wrong.

It was never really about the people themselves.

Perhaps there was a hollowness to Hemlock's feelings then. A sort of greedy shallowness. With her, logic came first, feeling and action came after as a by-product of it. She didn't know. She had only ever felt what she had, but she did know it was different. All the weeping, messy faces after the war and her blank façade was proof enough. Yet, she didn't think it made her emotions any less than anybody else's. It was still love, still missing, still happiness and anger. They were just in black and white, missing the richness of colour.

Possibly, that's why Hannibal and Will confused her so much.

There was no logic, not a single strand of it, to be found within her feelings to them. She had missed Lecter for missing him, not for what he could do for her. In reality, he hindered her a lot more than helped. It would have been entirely better if he had _stayed_ gone. Yet, fucking yet, she was happy he was back. She still had to wear a mask with him, more translucent, but still there, and she was bloody happy he was here despite having to keep playing human. She would miss Will too, she knew. She could kill him, she _should_ kill him, it would make everything so much easier, but she couldn't. She'd miss him.

With Hannibal and Will, feelings came _first,_ action and logic followed.

Hemlock didn't know how to walk in a world of colour.

"I did tell Will I was selfish, Doc."

But that didn't mean she didn't _want_ to try.

Hannibal did write something down this time. Something long and sprawling, with a sweep of the wrist at the end. She tried to picture his blood running between them, soaking in the cracks of the floorboards as if it was creating an antique map, pointing her in the right direction, a compass heading home, as long and sprawling as his writing. A quick severing hex to his neck could give her that. Right through the carotid artery. It would spray, she knew. Arching, wild. The thought gave her no satisfaction. She felt… She felt… Queasy.

Had she eaten something spoiled for breakfast?

"You won't kill me, Hemlock. As you won't kill Will Graham."

With a crack of air splitting, Hemlock apparated down, close, right on the Persian rug in front of Hannibal. This time, he did startle. He gripped his pen tight. His eyes flashed. His nostrils flared. Hemlock laughed. Loudly. He didn't know she could teleport.

"How can you be so sure? You know what I've done. You know what I plan to do. If I were you or Will, Doc, I'd be afraid. Very afraid."

So why wasn't he freaking out? Why was a tighter grip on a pen, a widening of eyelid and a quiver of nostril, all the surprise she could get out of him? No matter what she did or said?

"Because you like us. It frightens you, but it excites you at the same time. You won't risk prematurely losing that thrill by ending the game so soon. As much as you fear intimacy and affection, you crave it similarly. You desire to be understood and accepted… Loved, as who and what you are. Will does too, as you know. As do I. There's a connection there that you won't jeopardize, no matter what comes. It's not in you to do so. You are not Tom Riddle. You won't destroy love, be it in its many forms, familial, platonic, romantic. I suspect, I and Will, out of all, are the safest people around you. "

 _You're not Tom Riddle._ Will had told her that, what felt like a lifetime ago. Now Hannibal. And they were right. She wasn't Tom Riddle. She wouldn't kill them. She didn't want to go back to that horrendous black and white world, not now that she had sipped from the chalice of wonderful colour. Hannibal pulled back from his notebook, flipped it closed, placing it on the side-table beside him. His pen returned to his suit jacket pocket.

"Nevertheless, the same cannot be said of this Copycat, can it? What do you plan to do if you get close to him or her? If you find them? When you have them in your hands?"

Hemlock vanished the book back to where it too belonged, and promptly sat right on the rug in front of Hannibal, crossed legged, elbows on knees, head resting on fists. Like an impatient child sitting down for story time.

"What do you think I'm going to do? I'm going to kill him."

There was an impish tone to her voice, all Peter Pan and Wendy Darling. Hannibal slipped off his seat, down to the ground, to the very rug Hemlock rested on, and sat down directly in front of her, crossed legged also. Hemlock wondered if she moved left if Hannibal would too, like some great invisible mirror was splitting them, mirroring. She wondered if she threw her fist back and sent it flying, if his face would break like glass and cut up her knuckles. Hannibal lent closer.

"Why?"

Hemlock's fist fell, hand flopping into lap, head rising, face cocking to the side.

"What do you mean why? Because… Because it's balance, isn't it? He needs to total what he's took. I'm matching the cheque book. You heard what Will said, you heard what he called me, a fucking sociopath… But I have morals. I have… Something. I-… I need to set the balance right."

Hannibal blinked at her, and yes, there was a mirror there, be it real or in her mind, his head turning to match hers. Eye to eye.

"Why?"

No wonder his voice fitted the bird in flight. He reminded her of the raven, knock, knock, knocking on her chamber door. Nevermore. She knew, this time, unlike the mirror, that the sense of feathers stroking her face was all in her deranged little head.

"Because I have to. I-… I have to. He needs to die. He-… Death. He feels like Tom, but he's not. He's not and he is and-… He needs to go. I _have_ to kill him."

He reached for her slowly, her Nevermore doctor. He gave her chance to back away, maybe nip at his fingers as most skittish dogs do, but she didn't. She waited, felt a hand on top of her prone one laying limp on her knee. It was large. Larger than Wills. Cooler too. Much cooler. Real doctor hands. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, palm to palm, and if she wanted, really wanted, she could wrap her own around his wrist.

"Have you ever considered you might be trapped in a cycle, Hemlock?"

Her lip curled, her fingers wrapped, and she was sure her blunt nails scratched him. You don't spur flint without expecting a spark. He didn't flinch.

"Cycle?"

His thumb stroked at the pale blue veins of her wrist. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Tap, tap, tap. Repeat. Her numbers. Three and seven. The numbers she had to do, had to have, had to create. It was strange, having those numbers with her now, how fast she calmed down and stopped thinking of digging her nails in further and splitting her Nevermore doctors arm wide open. Maybe pull and play with his own blue veins.

"In incidents of highest emotional, psychological and physical trauma, we often find ourselves trying to recapture that instant where we survived, where we won, and all those emotions and thoughts that came with that one instance of victory. There have been records of people in rather nasty car crashes who will purposefully repeat another crash days later in an attempt to imitate that first life altering collision. We call it repetition compulsion. Look… You're doing it right now. Three and seven. Repetition. It's calming, isn't it? Makes it all feel as if everything is exactly how it should be? Secure? Predictable? You know what to do with three and seven, you've lived them before Hemlock, and so, you search for them again, in everything you do, to find that steadiness that you once had."

Hannibal chuckled and nodded down to their joined hands.

"You're doing it to me too, see? Six. The age my sister, Mischa… Died. You likely picked up the number subconsciously with your remarkable observation skills. See, I too know how it feels. To search and search, and only ever find scraps. To hold on so very tightly to those crumbs, numbers, just because that is all you think you have left."

Hemlock didn't know exactly when her nails stopped burrowing, and her thumb started stroking, but Hannibal was right. Six sweeps. Tap. Six sweeps. Tap. She didn't stop. Hannibal didn't either.

"When that traumatic event involves the killing of another human being, as yours does, it creates a specific cycle. One I believe you are currently experiencing. You wish to replicate that final fight with Tom Riddle, with the Copycat in his place, another who has killed unrepentantly, as you call him, the Tom-not-Tom. You're looking for another imitation."

His thumb stopped and the calm, the comfort, the safety, flew away on the back of black wings.

"The problem you will face, Hemlock, is there is _no_ other Tom Riddle. There will never be another perfect replication of that day where he died and you survived. You will never get that moment in time back. You will never, no matter how much you wish to, change that day. You will only ever repeat it in cheap procreation. When you drop a teacup to shatter on the floor on purpose, you're not satisfied when it doesn't gather itself up again. I know that feeling all too well."

Hemlock swallowed deeply. Something callous caught in her throat. It felt like Will's wishbone.

"Then what else am I meant to do? I have to… I have to… There's something sick in me, Hannibal. Something really fucking sick. I can't-. What else is there? This… This is all I know."

 _I can't walk in your world of colour. It's blinding. How do I walk when I can't see?_ Blinded. That's how Hemlock felt around Will and Hannibal. Blinded. There was colour, there was life, there was emotion in full scope and Hemlock was blinded by it all.

"Break the cycle, Hemlock. Change that day. Don't repeat. When, and I am sure it is when, you find this Copycat, don't do as you did all those months ago with Tom, what you are always trying to fix and change but never can, leave that broken teacup behind… Don't kill him. Don't kill the Copycat. Break the cycle."

Don't kill the Tom-not-Tom? Preposterous. Unbearable. A vase shattered somewhere behind her. Perhaps one of Hannibal's expensive statues. Her fingers were back to tunnelling again, raking, scouring. Hannibal was definitely bleeding this time. She could feel the trickle of it, warm and wet and tacky between her fingers, dripping on her knee. He didn't cringe or recoil. He held solid, constant. True.

Safe.

"Someone has to pay the price for the blood spilled. The scales need to level, Hannibal. They have to as I have to."

Hannibal's eyes were so extraordinary in moments like these, Hemlock thought. Softer than she knew eyes could be. Her Nevermore doctor's gone, the one who pokes and probes her into reflections and insights she never wanted to glimpse, and in his place is a man who sees all the colours of the world, all the colours Hemlock never understood existed before he and Will ambled into her monochromatic prison. With colour comes feeling, and with feeling comes life, and with life comes… Humanity. Yes, Hemlock thought. _Humanity._

That's the thing about monsters, they all craved to be human in the end.

If Hannibal were anyone else, if she saw colour and life and humanity in any other eyes but his, Hermione's or Ron's, Alana's or Jack's, she would have dropped her gaze. Withdrew. Appalled. Offended by it. Repulsed. Instead, with Hannibal, she was drawn to it closer, wanting more, always more, and there it is again, this shallowness to her monochromatic emotions. A craving for colour that she, herself, does not possess, but it didn't make it any less _real_ and devastatingly painful.

He released her wrist. It rose. There was blood on his cuff. Not much. A splash of crimson. It had felt like more in her own hand. As did most things in life. However, it had seeped up his hand, across his palm, down his fingers, and as Hannibal reached forth, skimmed fingertip across cheekbone, brushed a stray curl behind her ear, he branded her with a trail of garnet.

Hannibal tarnished her with colour, and Hemlock would never be the same again.

"And I am sure there are many others who have debts to pay, as Marissa Schurr did. She didn't fit Tom's profile, not remotely, and yet you still pursued her. That means you can deviate from the cycle at least a fraction currently. I'm sure other's alike are out there. Other's that can fill in without being a duplication."

Hemlock felt like she was a relapsing, jittery crack addict, and Hannibal fucking Lecter was her personal sponsor. _Don't go straight for the meth, Hemlock dear girl. Never go straight for the meth. Try some cigarettes. Some booze? Take the edge off. Just stay away from the meth._ Fill one addition with another, lesser, weaker strain, and hope its enough to suture the haemorrhaging laceration close.

"And what about the Copycat? I will find him. If I don't, Will will. So I have to get to him first. What do I do with him then? Give him to the fucking FBI? Let him live in some asylum, pleading insanity, and be on his jaunty way? If he really is anything like Tom, like me, he won't go. He won't. Not without a fight. Not without at least one body dropping. One last fill before they make him starve. I don't intend to have that corpse be mine, Will's or yours."

Hemlock only noted his hand pulling away, not that it had lingered in her hair. Blind. Completely blind. Like those mice.

"Do what you wished you had done with Tom. Talk to him, in that unique way you two talk. Understand him. Become… Friends."

Hemlock thought about it. Really thought. Hard. Persistently. Relentlessly. The hand was brushing another curl from her face. Another brand. Another flavour of colour. Could she do it?

Hemlock was standing in the remnants of Hogwarts, blood on the floor, bodies crashed over stone, and she saw him. Tom. Across from her. Wand in hand. Cold courage. He looked as he always looked in her mind when she remembered him. Not as the grotesque husk he had become, but her Tom, Tommy from the diary, her first real friend who smiled so charmingly. Her friend who understood, whose own world was black and white.

She stared at him. Tom stared back. It was silent here. Quiet. Just them. He raised his wand. Hemlock glanced down to hers. Could she do it? Stand here, as she had that day, with the Tom-not-Tom, and not lift her own wand? She looked up once more, Tom was gone. And there _he_ stood.

She pictured him as rose scented smoke. She knew it would itch like anthrax if it touched her. There was a face there, prowling in the black smoke, unseen. It was watching her with garnet eyes as she watched him. She lifted up her hand… She waved. It waved back. Her wand hand twitched. Could she do it? Drop her wand? Not take aim and fire? Break the cycle?

If Hemlock did… What came after that? How do you walk off a battlefield you never really left in the first place? Where would she go? What would she do? She took a step forward, the smoke followed her, closer, step, closer, step. She could touch it now, if she wanted. She could stretch up and dip her fingers into smoke and feel all the colours of the world and-

Hands from behind enveloped her jaw, her neck, and twisted.

 _They won't give up, Jack. It's not in them._

She came careening back to herself with the sound of Will's voice in her head, the feel of his calloused hand on her throat and chin, the rush of breath, and the smell of his cheap aftershave tickling her nose. Hemlock leapt up, away from Hannibal, leaving his hand hanging woefully in the air.

"I'm sorry, Doc. He has to die. I have to do it."

Hannibal was trying to help her, she knew. Help her stop, break from this crash, change course, help her escape the battlefield, to finally stop reciting and duplicating and echoing. But Hemlock was shallow, hollow, a cavern where a thousand voices like choirs sang. None of them her own.

Hannibal was a good person. Too good. He hadn't outed her to Alana, nor to Jack, or, Morgana forbid, Will. He had kept her nasty little secret. Why? Possibly because he was implicit in her actions, not that he could gave stopped her, but the law wouldn't see it that way. Maybe it too could be to help protect Abigail. If he gave Hemlock away, he'd have to out Abigail too. Perhaps, though, maybe, just maybe, Hannibal Lecter had a slice of hope for Hemlock.

A hope she could _be_ more than what she was.

As misplaced and bleak as that hope was, Hemlock thought it felt nice. Not for what it could do for her. Not for what she could use it for. Not for any logical reason other than it _felt_ nice to have someone have hope for her. A bewildering, chaotic world of colour.

"Tell me, Hemlock, if it is repetition you are after, if it is another Tom you seek, why do you not search inwards? You two are, or should I say were, extremely similar. I first suspected you would try to commit suicide when I first met you. I even warned your aunt, Alana, of such a possibility."

Hannibal said as he too stood up, tugging on his suit jacket to straighten out the imaginary creases. Hemlock gave a merciless laugh. As much as Hermione or Ron might argue otherwise, parading Hemlock's many seemingly 'suicide runs' in a never-ending conveyor belt, Hemlock herself had never been of that persuasion. She had never wanted to die.

She didn't fear it, not like Tom, not in the typical sense. She knew, one day, she would die as everyone else would. Permanently this time. It was the way of the world. You came from nothing, you returned to nothing. But she was greedy and slim, still the orphan chit locked in a cupboard in some way, famished for all the pretty things she never had, and she wanted to do as much as she could, live as much as she could, before her name was called.

"What do you think all this is? I have a price to pay too. One day, perhaps even with this Copycat, when we meet… He might win. Someone _will_ eventually. They'll kill me, I know that, and my own debt will be paid… But only after I've finished doing what I have to do. What I _want_ to do. And there's so much of that. My list is long, Doc. Very fucking long. I don't plan to bow out of the great game until I've had my fill of all of life's little pleasure."

Hannibal smiled at her, overflowing with shades and colours and tastes. The winter sun shimmering in through the blinds made it seem slick, fluid. Hemlock thought she might live a thousand more years, and if she never saw her Nevermore doctor again after today, she would still always come back to that smile, remember it as clearly as she was seeing it now, and plainly _feel._

"And the Teacup finally comes back together. The day changes. Tom survives… You die. Just how you wished that day had really gone. I worry about you, Hemlock. I, dreadfully, do not wish to see you die. At least think over what I have said. Think of breaking that cycle."

In doctor Lecter's large office, Hemlock on one side of the rug, Hannibal standing proud at the other, there was something intoxicating obscuring the space between them, closing the distance. Poignant. Sincere. Hemlock tasted the colour purple.

"Don't count me out so soon, Lecter. I'm not going down that easily. I do have magic on my side. Not many people can say the same."

Hannibal's gaze immediately fell to the wand pierced through her tangled bun. His smile was less now, muted, attentive but calm. He strolled over to his chair, sat once more, and Hemlock, as she always did, mirrored and echoed, and sat down in the chair opposite him, where traditional, normal patients would sit and moan and cry about their lives. Idly, she speculated if she would be able to feel their passions imprinted in the leather. Maybe feel their tears. She couldn't.

It was just fucking leather.

"Why, yes, how could I ever forget. Magic, you call it? Is there more of those like you? I assume Tom Riddle was?"

Hemlock shrugged and patted at the arm of the chair, following the stitches. Lecter's blood was crusting on her fingernails. Blood always dried _so_ quickly. It flaked off and Hemlock rubbed the rust into the mottled green leather. She might not be able to feel anything from leather, but if anybody could, Will would be able to. She bet he sat right here in his own sessions. She thought she might like to see what he would do, sitting in his chair, talking to Hannibal, and, perhaps, feel Hannibal's blood underneath his own hand and the essence of Hemlock lingering in the brass tacks of the chair.

"The story is exactly the same, add or take some Goblins, dragons, horcruxes and death. But… Yes. Tom was like me. We're not a lot, my people, but there's enough of us. We have our own government. Our own towns. Our own laws and institutions. My school, that boarding school, was for those like me. We call people like you, people who aren't capable of magic, muggles. Tom wanted your kind annihilated. He thought you were all worthless. Barbaric."

Swiftly, she changed tactics, without a single hitch to her stride.

"You likely pass us in the street. There's no biological difference. None we can tell so far. Brains, systems, organs, blood, everything's the same, we're just… Different. Well, we need more sugar than you guys. It's one of the only ways to point us out of the crowd. That old lady you pass in the street munching candy-canes in June? One of us. The man at the diner pouring sachet after sachet of sugar in his bargain coffee? One of us. We can-"

Hannibal cut her off.

"As fascinating as I am sure this is, and as much as I am sure I will be delighted to listen about it later, I am not concerned with others, Hemlock. I never have been. I am interested in _you_. So, tell me. Tell me your story. The true one. Not the one falsified in your files, erased from its exceptionalism, but the honest one. Tell me about you."

Hemlock stiffened. She had name dropped Goblins, dragons, death, an entire new world with whole other governments, eluded to the extermination of his own people… And he wanted to hear about her? Hemlock? She didn't need therapy. Hannibal Lecter did. Yet, something kindled in the cavity of her chest, deep inside the empty cavern, a candle, warm and light and flickering in the dark, and the thousand singing voices settled to silence as she heard the spectre of the flames spluttering in her ear. It was a good sort of burn.

"Where do I even begin?"

"The beginning is always a good place to start."

Hemlock kept back on the lies, biting them before they could flee her fanged mouth. They burst like grapes on her forked tongue. She could feel it coming again, the big spilling, the out of control expulsion. Hemlock fought against it. She really, honestly, truly did. She wanted to tell Hannibal some deformed Oliver Twist knock-off. Maybe Hamlet, though, with his taste in classical, he would likely pick that one right up. But his smile was purified to colours. Pink lip, white tooth, red gum, milky-peach skin, leaping, flowing, glorious colours, and as she had done with Will, without purpose, without rationality, without thought, Hemlock let it go. She let it all go. It felt good to spill, as it felt good to walk in colours, as it, irrationally, felt good to be blinded.

 _It felt good to feel._

"I think my story began centuries before I was born. You see, there were three brothers. Brother's like me, wizards… There were three brothers who tried to cross a bridge. Death had been waiting-"

Hemlock talked for hours, she thought. She talked until her voice was hoarse and words hurt. She talked until there was nothing left to spill. She talked about it all, everything, in pining candor, for the first time in her life. Albus. Tom. Ron. Hermione. Her aunt. Her uncle. Her hippogriff flight. The Weasley's Sunday lunches. Ollivander and what it felt like to get her wand for the first time. The power in her palm. The first time she threw a Crucio. She talked of dying and how peaceful it was, over there, wherever she had gone, imaginary or not. She talked of the agony of coming back, how she had never realised, until she had savoured that peace, how very fucking loud the world really was. Hemlock told him all, because, in the end, monster's just wanted to be human, and to be human was to be understood.

And Hannibal Listened to it all.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Alana just wants to protect her niece, Hemlock get's a special delivery at Crawford's office, Hannibal makes his move, and Will struggles with what is right and what he wants…

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 **Thoughts?**

 **NEXT UPDATE-** This was originally part of the next chapter, but I had to split them as together, they were over fourteen thousand lol. So, I thought instead of waiting two weeks for the whole chapter to be published as posting once a week would do, I would split them this way, and post this one tonight while I still can. I'm busy with Uni work this week, I've got two presentations and an essay, so I can't promise much, but I will hopefully post part 2 by the end of the week, if all goes well.

For those wondering when we are going to have some **solid trio bonding** , do not fear, **it is coming**! It's not next chapter, but the chapter after. I can't give too much away, but I will say shit hits the fan next chapter, Hannibal is Hannibal, and always five steps ahead of everybody. I hope you are look forward to it!

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 **Thank you** all for the wonderful reviews! This one's for you! I hope you liked it and are looking forward to what's to come! Thank you for all the follows and favourites as well! If you have a spare moment, drop a review, let me know what you think, you really do give me inspiration, and, hopefully, I will see you guys soon!


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER EIGHT: FIREWHISKEY  
PART TWO**

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 _Alana Bloom's P.O.V_

There was a distinctive noise paper made when it was whipped just right. A specific clap that reminded doctor Alana Bloom of the flail of butterfly wings mid-flight in spring. Crisp and clear. However, there was no chalky, flamboyant flutters to be found in the way Jack Crawford, partially behind his desk, prowling like a caged lion, whacked down the unfolded newspaper onto the table between them, the front page glaring back at Alana's furrowed gaze in black and white.

She didn't need to peek up from the paper to see Jack brace himself against the edge of the desk, feet shoulder width apart, fingers splayed, bearing down and over, to know he was furious. Jack made all that abundantly clear by the explosive tone his voice took.

"There's been a leak at the Bureau. It's a goddamned media shit-storm out there. The newspaper's are having a field day."

Jack swivelled the screen of his computer, the Tattler already black and crimson on his browser. Gingerly, Alana reached out, took up the paper, the Minnesota Herald, and eyed the headless visage of Marissa Schurr's corpse resting motionless on a morgue slab in greyscale. Next to it was a shaky shot, looking as if it had been taken through a window with the way the light streaked across its face in a broad race, was Marissa in all her theatrical pose, standing just as they had discovered her. Antlers, anacondas, and all. Headlining was three disconcerting words.

 _Friend or Foe?_

Alana swallowed down the sick and pressed on.

 _Sources at the local Bureau of Behavioral Science say there could be another serial killer active in the Minnesota, Maryland area just weeks after the disastrous attempted arrest of the Minnesota Shrike, Garret Jacob Hobbs, that left two dead, eight victims, and his daughter, Abigail Hobbs, in intensive care. According to exclusive informants, this killer is, perhaps, a league away from not only their predecessor, the Shrike, but all those who have come before them._

 _From all reports, this killer only pursues those of its own breed. Other murderers. The King Cobra, so nicknamed by our informants for the manner of the creature's majority diet being that of other snakes as well as its own species, is said to be sociopathic, exceedingly smart, but, our informants stresses, will not attack those they deem innocent._

 _Marissa Schurr, twenty-one, is the first currently known victim to have been struck by the King Cobra, though sources are sure there are more on the grounds of the meticulous and severe mutilation taken upon Marissa's body, and the complete lack of evidence left behind that suggest previous practice._

 _On the outside, Schurr was a lively, smart, attractive girl with a bright future ahead of her. Yet, upon the discovery of her body in a, as of yet, undisclosed location, her darker past has been brought to life through the killer leaving clues behind. Upon investigation, it was discovered Marissa Schurr had been the cause of two, possibly three, previously unsolved drunk hit-and-runs, leading to the tragic death of Jude Harlowe, a one-year old infant whose mother, Linda Harlowe, barely survived the crash, and Maria Mendez, a war veteran who had served fifteen-years in the United States army._

 _On the matter, Oscar Mendez, Maria Mendez's husband, and the parents of Marissa Schurr have declined the offer to give a statement to our press, but Linda Harlowe, still grieving the loss of her only son, is quoted as saying on the matter;_

 _I don't know who they are, where they're from, what they do… But if they made the person who took my son from me… My baby boy… Thank you. Wherever you are… Thank you. You've given me more than the police ever did. Justice._

 _And public sentimentality seems to be just as divisive as Linda Harlowe. Blogs and web-pages have sprung up already just twenty-four hours after the news broke, with amateur detectives trying to piece together a profile, some praising the King Cobra's work for doing what the FBI and Police continuously fail at, and some condemning this extremist vigilante that is leading only to more bloodshed._

 _One page has gone as far as setting up a betting ring on the odds of who, if there is to be another, the King Cobra will target next; with world renowned serial killer the Chesapeake Ripper in the lead, who is still at large and has their own cult following, quickly followed by Abel Gideon, the doctor who slayed his family in their home, despite him still being housed in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and a great portion of perceived corrupt government officials bringing up the rear._

 _The FBI have given no official statement to the public or police as of yet, and seem to desire to remain quiet on the matter. However, our sources have indicated there may just be inner conflict bubbling under the surface of the Behavioral Science department. Many of those working on the case believe one Nicholas Boyle, brother to Cassie Boyle, victim of the earlier Copycat killer, may be the culprit. However, lead criminal profiler and, highly contentious individual, field agent Will Graham has been noted as saying Nicholas does not fit the profile of the King Cobra, and the real killer is, in fact, still stalking the streets._

 _Perpetrator or not, I suppose time will only tell, as one thing unites the Behavioral Science Bureau. If the King Cobra is alive, they will strike again._

 _Of course, the Minnesota Herald does not condone any of what has previously been printed above, but it is interesting to view the contentious split in opinion on the matter, the obvious gulf ripping apart our Behavioral Science Bureau, and leads one to wonder where exactly morality falls in this large scope. One thing is for sure, dear readers, there is a new dawn this morning, and I, for one, believe the King Cobra won't come until it's called._

 _Guest crime correspondent, Todd Miler._

 _The opinions given in this piece do not reflect on the Minnesota Herald or its board of governors. They are the work of independent writers and journalists who-_

Alana tossed the paper back down, disgusted by the disclaimer tackily shoved at the very end like one would leave a memo on a dish for eating the last slice of cake. That's all it was, a sorry, poor excuse for a clause to stop from being sued. People were dead, a killer was on the loose, be it this King Cobra, as they were now being called, or the Copycat, and people were making bets? Applauding?

No matter how many years Alana worked in psychiatry, the mob would always, she thought, mystify and disappoint her.

Her opinion and mood only soured more as she clocked the screen of Jack's computer fully. Hemlock's face, bright and bruised, gazed back. Next to Will Graham, in front of a cross of police tape, Hemlock appeared small, too slight, too young, and their joined hands, near the focal point of the frank shot, twisted Alana's innards to something horrendous. A heap of writhing, wiggling worms.

It was a candid shot, taken from the bushes of the surrounding woods of the Hobbs cabin. Alana could see the blurry thick leaves blotting out a corner in mottled green. More shots followed. Hemlock in a car park. Hemlock walking outside of Hannibal's office with the very same doctor at her side, smiling up to the larger man. Hemlock asleep in Abigail Hobbs's hospital room, Will nodded off beside her. The three in the car. Hemlock on her crutches, in Alana's very own garden.

The text was worse. So much worse.

 _Newest rising star or damaged teen?_

 _A seventeen-year old girl, identified by this reporter's inside sources as one Hemlock Potter, has been spotted working cases for the local Baltimore FBI division. That's right, you read that correctly, a_ _child_ _has been drafted in to hunt the criminals the FBI behavioral science agency keeps failing to capture. Not only that, but this lucky reporter has managed to interview close friends of this previously unknown girl, and has come to a startling conclusion._

 _The FBI, it seems, as it has done with the notorious and unstable Will Graham, snatched up another unhinged, susceptible person to do their dirty work. Hemlock Potter is originally from Surrey, England, and a survivor of a home invasion that saw her two parents, former MI5 agents, dead. In the wake of such devastation, she became the unfortunate focus of a serial killer, and in a sick turn of events, murdered him at her boarding school when she was only sixteen years old. Not that long ago, in this reporter's humble opinion._

 _She is also accredited with bank robbery, mass destruction of public property, impersonating officials, fraud and identity theft, pyromaniac tendencies, the attempted murder of one of her fellow classmates in her seventh year of school, and-_

On and on it went. Accusation after accusation. Truth appallingly perverted and distorted to fit a never-ending narrative of obliteration and absurdity. Alana thought the paper in her hands fell to her lap through her abruptly lifeless, cold hands. Yet, she wasn't sure. Not completely. She wasn't sure of much but the pounding of her heart in her ears, and the suddenly dazed feeling washing over her skin, as if someone had dunked her head-first into a bath of ice. She was acutely aware of everything, alert the way only shock or adrenaline can make you, and yet completely baffled.

"How did Freddie publish this… This trash? She's in custody over the murder of Boyle and-"

Jack rolled his neck, or shook his head, it was hard to tell with her eyes still pinned on that picture of Hemlock, walking across a crime scene, hand in hand with Will Graham. Why couldn't she look away? She wanted to, by god almighty, she wanted to, but she couldn't.

"She had it ready and waiting on a back-burner drive we didn't find in time, on a timer, before the whole Minnesota trip. The clock hit zero last night and it automatically published. Other papers have jumped on-board. It isn't pretty Alana."

Alana Bloom was meant to take her niece in. Alana was meant to give her a safe, warm home. Alana was meant to be sitting in that secure, cozy home with Hemlock, talking over tea, perhaps with biscuits, maybe even chatting about boys or the pricey skirt they saw in a shop window. She was meant to be giving Hemlock a life any normal seventeen-year-old should have. And maybe, just maybe, that was the sort of life Alana wanted, wanted so much it hurt, too.

Instead, Hemlock was working cases. She had been stabbed. Thrown. Beaten. Bruised. And what had Alana done? She had been knocked out. Unconscious. Slumbering upstairs while her niece fought for her life. She sat in this office, day after day, drinking coffee and giving idle advice, all the while letting Hemlock wade back into the muck of the world. Alone. Now… Now the media was circling, and all Alana could think was how she felt so very, very cold.

"What do I do?"

Alana didn't think she had sounded as lost as she did right then before. Not even when she heard news of her beloved sister Lily's death, nearly seventeen years after it had happened. Jack sighed, long and full of suffering, as he ultimately took his seat. He looked old then. Old and experienced and too full of things no one should be full of.

"Nothing that can be done, doctor Bloom. I just wanted to give you the heads up, hence why I've called you in alone. You might have a few fanatical reporters at your door, demanding an interview or quote from Hemlock, so keep her back. We don't need her accidentally adding fuel to the fire."

There was a peculiar way that confusion turns to anger. It starts in the stomach, a bubble and a pinch, until it spread out like a dust cloud, choking everyone and everything in its wake. It became hot, blistering, coarse like sandpaper. As Alana pictured the life she and Hemlock should have, witnessed it in recline against the reality that brutally assaulted that vague, summer dream, Alana didn't become a dust cloud. She became a desert storm.

"So, I keep her locked up then? Only let her out when you need a sniffer dog? She's a person Jack! My niece! I refuse to pick her up and put her down only when you need a tire wrench to bash someone's head in and-"

Crawford crashed his fist onto the table, knuckles down.

"I know that Alana! What the hell do you think I'm trying to do? We have a leak! When news breaks that Freddie Lounds, the reporter of this very same piece, is in custody with the charge of killing Nicholas Boyle, the same man who is under investigation for the murder of Marissa Schurr, and Hemlock was there along with Abigail Hobbs of all people, the media will become rabid!"

Jack raised his fist, and pointed harshly to the computer screen.

"You think this is bad? You haven't seen anything yet! They're pack animals, Alana. Vicious. They'll try to hobble Hemlock in favour of getting Freddie in a better light before her trial. Abigail's protected in the hospital, Freddie's guarded in police custody, but Hemlock is spinning in the fucking wind!"

Jack rolled his jaw, his eyes still gleaming with rage and frenzy, and though he spoke through clenched teeth, his voice dipped softer.

"They very well might try to claim it was Hemlock who knifed Boyle, even if we have Freddie's testimony, just to sway public opinion. They might even try to glorify her, turn her into some depressing hero, in hopes she would, in payment, speak on Freddie's behalf at her trial. They'll come with all the dirty tricks they can. You can bet on that. That's how the media works. They'll gun for Hemlock, Alana, and you need to keep her away from the hyenas."

The sigh that breached Alana's lips was a signal, not of resolve or anger fleeing, but melancholy replacing relief. It was funny, Alana thought, that people could feel so many conflicting emotions at a single time.

"I just want her happy, Jack. I just want her safe and happy. I'm her _aunt_. I'm meant to protect her. I'm meant to give her somewhere safe to be and I-… I just keep failing, don't I? God, Jack, what do I do?"

Steps boomed as Jack made his way to her, even through the plush carpet. The hand he laid upon her shoulder patted once, twice, and squeezed.

"You're doing all you can, Alana. Everybody can see that. Don't worry, this will blow over soon. Just keep Hemlock away from the media until it does. It'll all be fine in the end. You'll see."

They both knew it wouldn't be. But, Alana supposed, it felt as nice for Jack to say it and half believe it, as it did for Alana to hear it and partially disbelieve it. It gave them something to focus on, think of, and not… Wait. Sit on their hands and wait for shit to hit the fan.

Idly, Alana picked up the paper in her lap, and scanned the article again. They said you shouldn't fight fire with fire, unless you wanted the whole world to go up in smoke. Yet, the press wasn't fire, was it? As Jack rightfully said, it was a ravenous pack of hyenas, mangy fur and black gummed yipping in the night, and sometimes, the best way to deter a pack of wild dogs from going in for the kill was to turn the pack in on itself. Her fist stiffened on the paper, the thin edge sliced her thumb, stinging.

She had a reporter to go and find.

* * *

 _Will Graham's P.O.V_

The delivery boy who poked his head into the break room of Baltimore's behavioral science bureau couldn't be older than twenty. Seventeen, if Will had to guess. He was still in that awkward stage of filling out, fattening the lanky bits, clearing the acne, showering in axe body spray, and, as he spoke, stopping his voice from breaking in nerves.

"I have a delivery for a…"

He shuffled into the room, juggling three boxes and a clipboard he had to hustle on his hip to peep at.

"Hemlock Bloom?"

Jack Crawford nodded and went back to quietly speaking to Alana in the corner of the room next to the coffee maker, now that he knew the delivery was not for him. Alana, who had been cradling her own Styrofoam cup, had not glanced up from watching the steam rise, even as the delivery boys voice broke into an ear-splitting squeak at the m in Hemlock's name. Hannibal sat between Alana and Jack, and he and Hemlock in the middle of the small refectory, on the slightly wonky couch, cup of tea perched on his knee, observing casually and silently, as psychiatrists were often to do.

Will, of course, had been huddled with Hemlock by the door, near a tray of donuts that Hemlock had been meticulously picking her way through, case file in hand, going over the newest batch of murders plaguing their streets. Three families killed around their dining table. One child missing. Single shot to the head for each member. Right between the eyes. Executioner style. More aptly, Will should say, the two had been arguing over it, particularly that last point of contention. Will believed it to be executionary originally, Hemlock was more persuaded it was devotional. The kind of face-on killing you did to an old, dying pet dog or horse that needed to be put out of its misery so you could free up space to go buy a new one. Will wasn't about to tell her that he already agreed with her, and had all along.

The only reason he kept fighting was because he enjoyed the way her cheeks flushed and her eyes ignited, and the smear of powdered sugar sullying the corner of her lip wobbled with her animated expression.

Then the delivery boy came, and Hemlock was arrested, staring, argument dying a fast death in her half open mouth, someplace among tongue and teeth, and that teasing cheerful flavour of delight turned bitter for Will. Powdered sugar to cyanide.

The poor delivery boy lumbered again, jutting out the boxes on his hip in Hemlock's frozen direction. They weren't very large things, though by no means small, the size of boutique hat boxes. Rounded. Classy. Elegant. Patterned with feathered pressed bell embossed paper, the lids free to detach, merely held in place with golden silk ribbons and crystal charmed tags. They appeared almost cut out of one of those glossy magazine pages of a Vera Wang bridal house.

And Will, who saw things no one else could, felt things other's felt, ceaselessly violated hallucination with reality, knew, oh fuck did he know, those jolly posh boxes weren't just boxes. He knew it because Hemlock knew it too.

"Please, Miss, take them. They're actually really heavy."

Hemlock marched over, never one to pause for long in the face of ambiguity or danger because, let Will be honest, she normally _was_ the mystery and peril bound up in a very pretty face. Seizing the clipboard from the struggling delivery boy, she popped the pen from the top with a snap, signed her name in a lazy swoosh, and took the boxes. The delivery boy scampered away with the click of the closing door.

Placing two of the boxes down on the table beside them, right by the tray of half-eaten donuts, Hemlock assessed the one in her hands a few feet away from him, flicking at the crystal charm tags dangling on the lid. There was something overtly tense in the fine lines of the crystal stag head bouncing next to the delicately cut quartz rose. Something that sputtered and crackled like a crown of flames.

"Hemlock?"

She pulled at the crystal charms, the neat bow in the ribbon collapsed, and the gilded strips of silk fluttered to the floor.

"I'm not expecting a delivery. I don't go by the name Bloom, Will. I'm a Potter. I didn't tell anyone I was going to be here today. I didn't tell anyone where I am. Not Hermione. Not Ron. Only Shacklebolt has my full address, and he's swore not to give it to anybody. He wouldn't lie to me. How the hell did the delivery boy find me?"

The lid popped off, just far away enough for Will to be unable to glimpse inside, and as he watched Hemlock gander in, crane her neck over and peep inside that terrible box, watched her freeze so very fucking still, watched the lid fall to the floor with a thud from a wilted hand, Will was struck with how fluid time was. It can pass by slowly, a drop at a time, even suspend and harden like tree sap to amber, or rush by in a blink like a great river. The clock on the wall, ticking away, said time was calculated and continual, part of a decorous world. The clock lied as Hemlock did.

With the too heavy weight of self-conviction.

"Hemlock, are you okay? Do you need to-"

Alana was finally looking up, finally noticing the shift in air, finally strolling over in curiosity, finally worried. Alana was like that, filled with finality. Too bad it always made her late to the game.

Hemlock stood there, box in hand, staring down. Static and silent. She was relaxed as she answered, before Alana could come any closer. Calm and collected and in control. Will would always remember that. He would never be able to forget. He would want to. Dream he could. Pray, some nights. Yet, he wouldn't.

Realization sometimes came gradually, in little jagged pieces, and sometimes, as Will would later do that very day, when the picture was complete and you saw the truth for the first time, you would wish you had ignored that first little corner piece of the jigsaw that started the whole mess.

"Alana, leave. Go get forensics up here… Beverly. Get Beverly. She's the best of the bunch."

Alana laughed, not chirpily, not sardonically, but in that shade amongst denial and hysteria, too shrill and too forced, and took another inquiring but too late step closer, bewildered by Hemlocks peaceful but sudden demand. Will wasn't. Apprehension did that. You could feel it coming before it ever really hit you if you had the sense for risk. _I am calm. I am collected. I am in control._

"What? I-"

"Go and go now. Someone get a phone, anything with a camera. Take a picture. Get exactly where my hands are… Where my prints will be."

It hit the rest in the room then. It hit like a shot of whiskey. Rapid. Slick. Clean. With the flare of fire burning at the end. Why would Hemlock need evidence of where her hands were placed? Why would she need to see where her prints would be? Why, oh why, did she want Alana, just Alana, to leave the room? One, two, three boxes the size of hat packages. The perfect size for-

"Hemlock… What… What's in the box…No…"

Alana blinked, faltered forward, nearly desperate, nearly falling. Hemlock managed to drag herself away from the contents of the box, gaze flickering between Will, Jack and Hannibal in a flurry of scarcely stifled resentment, the first few lovely snowflakes of a blizzard falling in warning of the storm to come.

"Someone get her fucking out of here!"

Jack was, as always, the first to jump to action, sweeping around, capturing Alana's arm before she could come any closer, trying to haggle her around Hemlock without coming too close to leave through the door. Alana fought. She pushed and pulled and demanded Hemlock answer her, but the younger woman only went back to looking down into the box. Jack got the door open, he shouted for forensics to get their asses up there, he had Alana around the waist now, he dragging and she clawing and, even as the door shut once again, Will thought he heard Alana's breaking cry carry down the hallway like a lamb being led to slaughter.

Will found himself moving. He found himself next to Hemlock. He found himself looking down. The first thing he noticed was the bed of shiny pearls. Polished and gleaming and pure white. Of course, anybody else would have spotted the severed head of a middle-aged woman, pinch featured and frozen in death by a warbling shriek that would never leave her, first. Yet, Will saw the pearls, refined as they were, reflecting back a hundred different hims from the bed of the box, and anew, he heard that voice whisper in his head.

 _I am calm. I am collected. I am in control._

"She always made me polish her pearl necklaces. Every Wednesday and Sunday. She was never happy with my work. Always made me redo it again and again until my fingers cramped. She'd lose her temper in the end. Smack me around the face with them… Pearls leave strange bruises and cuts… Round… Perfectly round…"

Will looked up sluggishly, painstakingly calm, the many reflections of him turned, all at once, and Hemlock locked eyes with his over the box. He could feel the Copycat waiting in the silk of the ribbon, burying in the folds of paper, between the shadowed places of the pearls, in the agape mouth of Hemlock's aunt Petunia. A pig's head bestowed in style and sophistication the older Evans sister had always fought so hard for but could never quite grasp herself. The other gifts, one larger than the one in Hemlock's hand, the other smaller than both, were likely her cousin and uncle.

 _I am calm. I am collected. I am in control._

Will saw it all.

"Hemlock…"

And so did she.

She saw the burst of recognition, the last piece falling into place in the void of Will's dark mind, and there was a sort of overdue acceptance lingering in the lines and sweeps of her pretty, pretty face. All Will could taste was cyanide and whiskey. _Rapid. Slick. Clean._ There was only one reason the Copycat would send a gift to Hemlock…

She was the Veiled Rider.

* * *

 _Will Graham's P.O.V_

"They've recovered the bodies. They were at Alana's home, in the closet underneath the stairs. Staged. They're being transported to Forensics now. We should have a morgue report and method of death by tonight. Are you sure it's the Copycat Will? Hemlock has a lot of enemies back home. A few of Tom Riddle's followers are still missing and presumed alive."

Will Graham shook his head, his eyes still lingering on the spot where he had stood only an hour ago, next to Hemlock Potter, a severed head between them, before the forensics team had gushed through the door, dashed him aside, took the box, snatched Hemlock down to evidence, and the bureau had broken out into chaos like a shaken nest of wasps.

"No. That… The heads… It's him alright. Pigs to slaughter… It's him. I can feel him."

Hannibal spoke up from his seat at Jack's desk.

"The Copycat possibly saw her picture in the news, saw her assistance in the case, and it caught his attention."

It was the easiest conclusion to draw, wasn't it? It would be easy to believe everything was so simple. However, it never was. It never was and Hemlock… When bones break, they crack. When pencils break, they snap. When tables or beds break, they shatter. When blood is spilled, it splatters. When a heart broke, there was only silence.

"This is a fucking mess."

Jack huffed. Will's eyes slipped shut. On the back of his eyelids, in iridescent splendor, he saw her smiling beside him in the car, red-lipped moonbeams and movement, all the while, that damned reflection was glowering back at him from her window, telling him to look, taunting him to see. Will saw now. He saw and he broke a little inside. Hannibal rearranged in his seat, straightening his tie.

"We can't have Alana with Hemlock. We need to separate the two. As Hemlock's other aunt has been targeted, it's not a far leap to believe Alana will be next. The Copycat has pursued Hemlock's family. Alana needs a secure location until the threat passes."

Jack sagged in his chair, running a tired hand down his face.

"Alana can come stay with me. I can have security around my house. She'll be safe."

Will snapped back to himself with a jolt.

"What about Hemlock? She's the true objective of the Copycat. He's trying to get to her… He's trying…"

White belled paper, aged crystal charms, pearls and a blue dead face. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. That was the rhyme, wasn't it? Hemlock liked rhymes. She like symmetry and irony, and parallels that never deviated. She also, apparently, enjoyed carving people up, chopping off heads, and sowing snakes into bellies. Hannibal regarded him with a keen eye.

"He's trying to what, Will?"

The doctor pushed. Will blinked swiftly, his lash line clipping as they met over blown pupil. He should tell them. It's right there, in his mouth, foul and fatty. _Hemlock's the killer. Hemlock's the killer. Hemlock's the killer._ Three words. Five syllables. Painless. Yet, it never came.

"It was a gift. Hemlock's aunt and uncle were abusive, but they were the only real parents she's known, outside of Tom and her file says his body was incinerated. The father figure always walks the bride down the aisle. In this case, she can take _him_ down the aisle with her. This is his way of… It's an invitation to church. He's going to want an answer. Soon. She's not safe Jack."

Jack leant forward.

"We can send word back to England, have her transported back for the-"

Hannibal interjected efficiently and politely.

"There is no need. Alana can stay with you, Jack, and Hemlock can come stay with me. I already have clearance to work with vulnerable people. I have plenty of room, and my home is very close to the Bureau. The Copycat has made no attempt to contact or, should I say, talk to me, unlike he has done with Will, so it is safe to assume that I am out of his line of sight. My neighborhood can hold a security detail on it without much pressure either, unlike Will's remote house where any idle cars would be easily identified."

Will snatched his glasses off his face, went to clean the lenses, and one popped right out the frame and fell to the floor at his feet. He was trembling, crashing, howling.

"What about Abigail? Hemlock can come to mine and-"

Hannibal smiled at him, stood, sauntered over, and gently took his glasses from his shaking hands, bending down to pick up the now scratched lens. With delicate grace, Lecter slid the lens back into the beaten frame and tenderly placed them back on Will's nose, fingers brushing curls from ears. His hand fell to Will's shoulder, on the crux where neck met joint.

"Will, Abigail is still in the psychiatric hospital. She visits, yes, but she does not stay. I have plenty of room. Hemlock _cannot_ go to you. If it is true, if the Copycat has tracked her through the press and her photos, she has been pictured on the front page with you. Hand in hand, if I'm not mistaken. When the Copycat discovers she has been moved from Alana's, he will look to you first. It is best he does not find her there… Given your recent change in relationship."

Jack's eyes widened at the unexpected exposé, but kept quiet in the face of bigger troubles to climb. It would come, Jack's questioning and possible anger, but not while he could aim that at a killer.

Will rubbed at his mouth, felt his stubble scratch his palm, felt her breath flap against the shell of his ear, warm, so warm. _I am not a good person, Will._ And perhaps he wasn't either. He should be telling them. Shouting it. Demanding an agent, even himself, go down to evidence and arrest Hemlock. He could see it now. She would fight. He'd raise his gun. There would be a bang and it would all be over and Hemlock would-

He should be- and he wasn't. Instead, he was smiling unsteadily, fingers twitching at his side, he thought there might be sweat glistening on his brow, or blood, he felt like he was bleeding out and-

"You're right. She's safest with you."

Distantly, as if he was thinking outside his own body, he thought Hannibal would be safe with Hemlock. She wouldn't attack him. Not an innocent. _It wasn't her design_.

Jack stood up and strode to the coat-rack in the corner of his office.

"Good. Hemlock will stay with Hannibal until we can catch this motherfucker, and Alana can stay with me until we're sure she isn't a target to get to Hemlock. Doctor Lecter, forensics should be finished gathering evidence off Hemlock should anything have transferred over to her when she had the box. Please, take her back to yours and keep a close eye. I'll send a patrol around within the hour. Let Alana know I will collect her in fifteen minutes.. Don't… Don't tell her we're separating her from Hemlock. Not just yet."

Jack swept on his coat and headed for the door as Hannibal nodded, hand still on Will's shoulder, and he pondered if the taller man could feel how fast his pulse was flying underneath his skin.

"Are you coming, Will?"

Will had a split moment where Jack glanced back from the door, just one second where their eyes locked, Hannibal right by his side, where Will had one final chance of telling Jack the truth, laying it all out there. He didn't know whether it was Hannibal's hand, if moved but an inch that would envelope his throat in strong, piano fingers, tightening a portion, or whether it was that darker shard of himself floating up to the surface like oil on top of water, or the sensation of Hemlock at his other side, hand slinking through his own, tugging, claiming, that stalled his tongue, but something did.

Maybe all three.

"I need some time to think. Alone."

Hannibal's hand fell as he too made his way to the door with a final, almost affectionate, stroke.

"You're more than welcome to drop by tonight, Will. For tea, of course. I'm sure Hemlock will be glad to see you after-… After."

Oh, Hemlock would be pleased to be sure, and the sad truth? Will would _still_ be happy to see her too. Will couldn't stop that. Just like how he couldn't stop what was so obvious to come.

"I'll be there."

Whether he or Hemlock, now that he knew, now that _she_ knew he knew, would be leaving walking, or in a body-bag, was another matter entirely.

* * *

 _Will Graham's P.O.V_

Will paused near the closed door of Hannibal's front room. He couldn't reasonably remember how he got there, exactly. He thought he remembered staying in Jack's office. He thought he remembered flipping a table over. He thought he remembered the smell of pine in the air as he walked through a wood, the sound of branches snapping underneath heavy feet, something running up ahead. He thought he remembered stashing something heavy and cool in the belt of his trousers.

His hand flew there now, feeling the cold press of a loaded gun digging into his hip.

Will felt like he was gently sliding into insanity.

He thought he remembered ambling up Hannibal's drive, night now fallen, god knows what he had been doing from woods to Lecter residence. He thought he remembered the bigger man opening the door, grinning brightly, escorting him inside, telling him to head on through to the front room as he finished the final touches for dinner in the kitchen and he would be in shortly.

Will _thought_ he remembered, but he couldn't conclusively answer. Perception, even that of memory, in the end, was a tool pointed at both ends. Will liked killing Hobbs. He could admit that now. Killing Hobbs had felt just. Righteous. Wickedly alluring. Hannibal had told him, had he not, that Will sticking to therapy would reveal that the sprig of zest Will felt would show him whether it had been for saving Abigail or killing her father? The gun hidden at his side said killing Hemlock might feel the same as killing Hobbs, and it was, in fact, the latter all along that gave him that _zest_.

Maybe he was stuck in a cycle. Doomed to repeat that day over and over and over. Maybe he should try and lead her to the kitchen, see if he couldn't make a real replica of that fateful day.

He wasn't in full control of himself, or oddly in complete control, when he reached for the handle, twisted the brass, pushed open the door a crack and slipped in, toeing it shot behind him.

Hemlock was resting on the far windowsill, knees drawn tight to her chest, chin resting atop, knotted in upon herself, staring out into the night, more silhouette than human in the warm lamps lighting the room softly. She turned to face him, and there it was. The delight he got when he saw her. The thrill he knew would come. The pleasure that always came from her. It burned like treachery.

She was dressed in men's boxers and a white shirt three sizes too big. Forensics had likely stripped her of her own clothes, eager and hungry for evidence, and being barred from going to Alana's until they had finished dusting for evidence, Hannibal had given his own over.

She unfurled from the windowsill, slipping to the hardwood floor barefoot, and it was like watching a spider descend from their web in the corner, with that lethargic opulence only marauders could know. Will stayed with the door to his back, handle digging into spine. The lamp flashed over her, the light hit her face, and Will could only watch and wait and watch some more. She was catastrophically beautiful right then.

"Why did the Copycat send you a message Hemlock?"

They both knew. They had to at this point. Dammit, Hemlock's fucking crutches and bandage was missing, gone, clear thigh for all to see, and Will chuckled. He wasn't surprised. He didn't think he could take anything for granted with the girl in front of him, full shadow and arachnid charm.

He could make himself look, he could make himself see, but his thinking was shutting down thought by errant thought. Hemlock's chin tilted; head cocked, and Will saw himself closer, grasping her hair by the nape of her neck, and yanking it back, bearing throat. She'd glare at him, flash her own teeth in warning, and it would look like a smile.

"Where were you Will? When we got back from Minnesota, you were AWOL for three days. Alana didn't see you. Jack didn't see you. Hannibal said he only saw you at the end, at night, half out your mind. I sure as hell didn't see you. Where were you?"

It didn't take much to pick up on the thread she had dropped for him, the spider spinning a lure for the little fly to come harmlessly pestering up its web. Nevertheless, the laughter that came boiling up his throat hurt.

"You think I'm the Copycat? Me? You think I sent you your aunt, uncle and cousins head in nuptial wrappings?"

They moved at the same time. Will pulled away from the door, jacket loose about him, layer of thick mud stuck to the soles of his boots, Hemlock's feet padding on wood, nearer, deeper, harder.

"Only so many people know about my aunt and uncle. Even less know what they put me through. Only those who read my file would be able to find them, if they wanted. The Copycat inadvertently helped Abigail get away, didn't he? Put up a distraction for us to huff… You like Abigail, and perhaps it wasn't so unintentional. I checked out with Jack, Will. You were missing the weekend Cassie Boyle's body was found. You were _gone_ then too."

He had been in his house, alone… Alone. No neighbors. No witnesses. Nothing but his dogs and a fishing rod. He wanted to snicker. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell. Where Will had no alibi, Hemlock had too many. Same coin, different sides.

"Yet, Alana swears she saw you in your motel room the night Marissa Schurr died… And we both know you somehow weren't. It appears neither of us can trust what others say right now."

They halted a few feet apart, only a few. If Will reached up, he could brush the corkscrew hair out of her frantic face. He could also, perhaps, reach up and snap her spindly neck. He would need to be fast. Hemlock was nippy, nifty, nimble, and she liked to nibble at her toys. One wrong move and she would get the upper hand in a blink.

"I've never lied to you Will."

Soft. Supple like downy plumes and fawn fur. There was no lie to be found there. There never had been. She had not, not once, lied. Not outrightly. That was, perhaps, the worst part. How blind he had been. How fucking blind.

"You've never really told me the truth, either, have you? Was any of it real?"

Her lashes fluttered at him, a frown pulling down tight over her eyes.

"All of it… All of it was real, Will. _You know that_. I-… You were in danger. I was-… I was trying to help."

Will laughed.

"Help? Help? You murdered someone, Hemlock. Cut them open and messed them up. You-… You call that helping?"

She was confused, Will could tell. Her nose did that little wiggle it did when something inexplicably peculiar and perplexing crossed her path, when the daisies she like picking bit back, the wiggle of a fox's nose when it smelled a new scent. She was frankly bewildered how Will could not see her cause, her winding intention and, more, could not agree with her. To her, no doubt, it all made perfect sense. To her, it was plain, cold maths. To her, Will trumped Schurr's life.

"The Copycat was transfixing on you. I was helping in the only way I know how."

Will vehemently shook his head, striving urgently to clear the smoke and fog that was shrouding his mind, the smog that Hemlock seemed to perpetrate and infect him with. There was an innocence to Hemlock. A horrific, hideous naivety. She truly thought she had been helping. Helping Marissa pay her debt. Helping Will survive. Helping the Copycat come to his end. It was like the child who burnt down a kitchen to kill a cockroach.

"You _slaughtered_ a girl. You did that. Do not try and put that on me."

Her eyes narrowed, flat and cruel. The child-like innocence was gone. She gazed at Will as if he was the enemy. That sway from most loved, beseeching him to see her view, the world as she did, far away. Frustration and animosity sculpted her shape to tight, vicious lines. Hemlock had no greyscale, not in emotions, only polar extremes. The glare, Will knew, would only last as long as it took her to find the most brutally cutting thing she could to tear him down with as he had just done to her.

"Slaughtered? Like she slaughtered that wife and child? Maria? She was on her way home from five years of tour of duty that night. Did you know that? She'd survived terrorists and car bombs, nights in shelters, hiding for cover… She'd made it… Until she hadn't. Until some up-start little girl decided to get behind the wheel with whiskey on her breath. You mean that kind of slaughter? Or are we talking about your own slaughter of Garret Jacob Hobbs? Ten bullets, was it? He was dead by four, but you just kept on shooting, didn't you? Couldn't help yourself. Once you started, once you got a taste for it, you couldn't stop. Is that why you were disqualified from detective work? It says in your file that you refused to shoot when you needed to. Did you know back than what it would be like? Did you know as soon as you started pushing that trigger, you just couldn't stop? Did you-"

"You can't play judge!"

She was getting into his head, down into the very trenches of it, ripping up every dank little secret he had thrown and buried down there, hoping they would never see the light of day again. He wanted-… He needed her to stop. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't breathe right. Hemlock threw her arms out wide.

"Why can't I? Do you not play arbitrator, Will? With every killer you track, you sentence them just as much as a jury does! You might not inject them, you may not lock the cage, but don't fucking pretend like you don't have your own role to play in their fate… And don't you dare pretend you don't _enjoy_ it. In a way, you've been firing your gun all along. You've been slaughtering too. You thirst for the hunt just like everybody else."

No. Not like everybody else… Just like Hemlock. Just like the killers he chased. In truth, just like the fucking Copycat. Nevertheless, regardless of this, or maybe because of it, because she made him see the parts of himself he didn't want to see, because she wouldn't let him pretend, not around her, because fury was so much easier a weapon to wield than pain, Will wanted to hurt her back, and unlike Hemlock, Will could lie. Callously.

"What I do is nothing like this. It's nothing like _you_."

She flinched. A muscle in her jaw jumping, working a mile a minute. Now that wounded her. Badly. She was back on her feet quick enough, keen eyed and greedy, and her gaze fell to his side.

"So, you're not my judge right now? You're not here to sentence me? You don't think I can't see you have a gun on you? What are you going to do? Kill me? Where will you shoot, Will? The stomach? The head? Or will you go straight for the heart?"

He swallowed. The spit caught in his throat. He was still feeling mean. Cruel. Venomous. Good-natured, gentle Will, who wanted to see Hemlock as hurt as himself. He thought, beside himself, that the pain would be easier to take if someone else felt it too.

"I'm not sure you even have one."

As soon as he said it, he wanted to take it back. Snatch the very words right out the air before they could reach her. He didn't mean it. Any of it. He didn't understand why he felt this way. Why he wanted to devastate her so desperately. Yet, he did, and it makes all this easier… It makes it easier to realise Will had been changing for a while now, _becoming_ , long before Hemlock walked into his dreary little life. He hadn't felt like himself for a while now. They both knew exactly where to hit each other to make it hurt in the best possible way.

"For a man who pretends to kill innocents every Merlin damned day for his job, you sure do like to pretend you're different, don't you? Guess what, Will? You're not. Not really. That day in the Hobbs cabin, you weren't describing me. You were describing _yourself_. You felt yourself _through_ me. You're the one with masks, Will. You're the one who doesn't let people see underneath. But I have. _I see you Will._ You do what you do because you revel in it. Worse… You lie that you don't. You want to find a liar, Will? Huh? Look in the fucking mirror. At least I'm honest about who and what I am. You can't say the same, can you? Go on, say it. Say it!"

He can't. He fucking can't and she knows it, he knows it, they all know it. He had been free-falling for years now, trying to frantically hold onto what little semblance of decency and humanity he had left. That's why Will was enraged with Hemlock, why he wanted to hurt her, really. It wasn't because she had lied, for she had not. Not even that she had managed to get so close and deceive him, he thought he had known all along, and neither because, as sick as it made him, he was neither repulsed or opposed to what she was or what she had done.

 _It excited him._

That was where the anger came, from excitement bottled up, oppressed, strangled. She was pulling the last splinters of humanity and sanity right out of his grasping hands, laughing, as Tom Riddle had once upon a time done to her, lifting the veil, forcing them to look in the mirror, really look and really see that the monster, all along, had been them.

He had been becoming this for a while now. Perhaps since he was born, and there was a nostalgic shot of relief that came with the awareness that, truthfully, you were always going to end up exactly where you were standing.

"You're the Copycat, aren't you? You're him? You _played_ me! You're playing me right now! Just like Tom! You-… You run off to England, kill my aunt, uncle and cousin, post their bloody heads to me, to what? Get me alone? Off me? Here's your chance, Will. But you only get one. Make sure it fucking sticks because I swear, if I get back up… You _won't_ have another."

He reached for his gun, slid it out, raised it. The hammer clicked back with a clack. Hemlock crossed the distance with a single, long stride, pressed the muzzle to her forehead, and glared down the barrel at him.

"One shot. Make it count. Or pray you can run."

His finger stroked the trigger, crept through the hole, constricted. This too, terribly, excited him. It's wrong. Immoral. But it does. His eyes finally clear. Hemlock glowering back with death at her temple. He with all the power in his hands. He doesn't think about pulling the trigger. He can't bring himself to. However, he likes the way her eyes shine when she thought he would.

Perhaps, with how interwoven the two were, it was Hemlock who was excited, Frothing at the mouth for a chance at a good fight, impatient to be tested, and it was he who was suffering the bleed out. Maybe they were feeling the exact same thing, in the exact same moment in time.

It didn't matter.

Will couldn't kill her. She couldn't kill him. There, really, wasn't a he or she in Hannibal Lecter's living room. Just a them. Us. We. One. They were sick. They were wrong. They were the cruelest parts of each other mirrored back from a hundred pearls. The best echoing back from the rustle of golden silk falling to the floor. Where Will ended and Hemlock began, there was no one single place. They were joined, entwined. Her emotions were his, ravenously, irretrievably his as much as they were hers. All his behaviors, all his actions, all his faults and ticks and plans not taken, were hers. A limbic system in harmony.

 _It was beautiful._

"I am _not_ the Copycat."

He dropped his gun. It swayed at his side. Hemlock searched him. Up and over and around, right down deep into every nook and cranny that was _him_. She believed him. That effortlessly, she believed him.

"Then who? I don't understand- They had to be close enough to read my file. They had to know I would be in Crawford's office today. They had to know you were there to see it, to make the connection… They wanted to out me to you. They obviously wanted to get me alone-… No. Not just me… I was never the target… Not the sole target… Oh…"

They sealed senses, locked eyes, bled from one to the other and back again, and two became one as Will finished her flying musings.

"They didn't just want to get _you_ alone. They know, don't they? They know me better… They know _you_ better… They knew if you were alone I would follow… I'd put the pieces together… You… You'd be honest about it. Of course you would… Smart… Too shrewd… They knew I would confront you… You've been separated from Alana… Jack would have just called us in for a job…"

There was only one person who knew Hemlock and Will as well, perhaps better, than they knew themselves. There was only one person who would or could entice them into this room, know exactly how it would work out, who could play them so well. There was only one person who was always there, even when he wasn't, hovering between them, unseen like atoms.

They knew Will would not, could not, rat Hemlock out, as much as she would or could never lie about what and who she was to him. One who had been missing, for both the weekend leading up to Cassie and the week the Dursley's were killed. One who would know exactly that a courting gift to Hemlock would never really be just to Hemlock, not with how connected she and Will were.

One, tonight, who knew Will and Hemlock so well, knew they would only ever see the complete truth if they bounced off each other in full sincerity of themselves, and would figure it all out. Together.

Just one.

The door to the living room swung open, Hannibal Lecter stepped in, tie and suit jacket off, top buttons of his oxford shirt undone, sleeves rolled up, tea-towel slung over a broad shoulder.

"Dinner is served."

Will swerved, raising his gun, feet apart, braced. Hemlock lobbied close to his side, her hair stick in her hand, it too high and aimed and fixed.

Hannibal smirked.

"Ah, I see you've skipped straight to dessert. Wonderful."

* * *

 **Thoughts?**

 **THANK YOU** to everyone who reviewed, followed and favourited! All your support for this fic really does mean a lot, and honestly, astounds me each and every time I receive any emails in my inbox. It's the reason I keep coming back to this. So, yes, thank you all. This is where I normally beg for reviews, but I'm actually pretty hesitant of the response this time. We've taken a huge right turn away from source material, there's no going back, and honestly, it's actually kind of scary lol. So... Please be kind?


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